


Darkness in the Forest

by SerenLyall



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-05-06 01:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14631693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: Eryn Galen-Greenwood the Great-has begun to fall into darkness. Evil creatures stalk the shadows hunting, thirsting. When calamity befalls a group of travelers from Rivendell accompanied by an escort led by Legolas, two of the company find themselves in a situation that quickly turns from bad to worse. Now they only have each other to rely on as they battle to simply stay alive





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that was begun over five years ago over on ff.net. I'm finally coming back to it, with the hopes that I'll actually finish it this time.
> 
> That being said, it's been a long, long time since I wrote anything for Tolkien, and I'm still trying to get back into the right style/tone. So if it comes across as stiff and overly formal and pretentious, I apologize - I'm working on it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! (Even if it is stiff and overly formal and pretentious...)

Chapter 1

_The fourteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

Eryn Galen was grey and silent, trees and undergrowth cast in silver mist and the skies hung heavy with stormy clouds. Leaves glittered a deep, bright green, and the ferns and the stiffly flowering underbrush that thrived in the shadows of the great trees gleamed in the sullen light. Everything was painted with hyper-realistic edges and vibrant colors beneath the coiling mists, the early morning’s rain turning the world watercolor.

 _It is beautiful_ , Elrohir Elrondion thought, casting his gaze back and forth across the path that he and the line of horsemen were following. _So why am I so ill at ease?_

The path wound between the trees, zigging and zagging back and forth amid the huge trunks, leading ever upward toward the line of mountains marching resolute in the distance ahead. Their craggy peaks, infrequently visible through the foliage, were shrouded with the low-hung clouds, and were dark beneath the promised storm.

Elladan, Elrohir’s twin brother, identical to him in every way but personality, rode just ahead of him, bow and quiver slung on his back over his cloak. He wore a blue tunic and a leather jerkin, brown pants and knee-high riding boots. A dagger and a purse hung on the belt slung above his hips. His dark hair was gathered in a loose braid down his back.

Elrohir kneed his gelding forward into a trot, drawing abreast of Elladan in a few seconds. Elladan glanced over at him, one eyebrow lifting in silent question and surprise. He looked very much like their father.

They had been riding in comfortable silence ever since breaking camp that morning—a comfortable silence that was laden down with the lingering afterimage of the rain that had fallen an hour after they had embarked on the road, and was loath to be broken. As it was, Elrohir surprised even himself when he said, “Does something feel...amiss to you, brother?”

Elladan’s eyebrow lowered and he frowned. “Amiss in what way?” he asked.

Elorhir shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. Was he reading too much into the silence of the forest—silence that was surely begat by the rain of the morning, and of the rain promised for the afternoon?

“I do not know,” Elrohir said. Then, “Perhaps the silence is simply grating on my nerves.”

They rode on in silence for a few moments, before Elrohir broke it again, saying, “I don’t know what it is, but something feels _wrong_.”

“Wrong how?” Elladan asked.

Elrohir shook his head. “It feels like we are being watched,” he said, the realization coming to him even as the words left his mouth. “Yes, that’s it. It feels as if we are being watched.”

Elladan glanced to either side of the path, searching the undergrowth and amid the boughs of the trees. Then he looked back at his brother, riding expectantly at his side. Elladan shook his head.

“I see and sense nothing,” he said. “If you are truly worried, however, perhaps you should go speak with Legolas.”

Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Eryn Galen, was the leader of the company of Elves trekking through the forest’s trees. Seven days ago his father had sent him and two squads of the kingdom’s finest archers and spearmen to meet the envoy from Rivendell at the forest’s edge.

“It will be a good teaching experience for you,” his father, Thranduil, had said when he had told Legolas that he would be leading the company. “It should be a simple and straightforward journey to the forest’s edge and back. And I will be sending Celebint with you.”

Celebint was one of the three Marshalls of Eryn Galen, the leaders of Thranduil’s armed forces. Of the three, Celebint was the Marshall of Arms, meaning he was the commander of Thranduil’s army, while Galadhion was the Marshall of his Guard and Golbrennil was the Marshall of his Huntsmen. Many of the kingdom’s finest archers were both Huntsmen and part of Thranduil’s army, though the Guard remained separate from both.

“Why are you sending me?” Legolas had asked his father.

“Because you are nearing a millennia old,” Thranduil had replied evenly, “and it is high time that you become a commander as well as a warrior and Huntsman.”

They had been seated in Thranduil’s study, wood-paneled and beautifully carved, with a massive desk on the far end and a fireplace to the left. A couch and two armchairs stood in front of the hearth, while bookshelves filled the alcove to the right. A fire was burning, lighting the room with a ruddy glow, and Legolas had been seated across the desk from his father.

“I am also speaking with Celebint about making you a squad captain—though that discussion can wait until your return with Lord Elrond.”

Legolas had bowed his head. “As my lord commands,” he had said, trying to hide the spike of excitement that had speared from his heart and into his lungs, throat, fingers. While happy as a Huntsman—an elite group of hunters and wardens who guarded the forest from dark creatures who would threaten the palace and the Elven settlements—he had been itching for a few years now to be more than just a simple warrior. He was, after all, the Crown Prince of the kingdom.

This, it seemed, was his chance to prove to his father that he was ready for such responsibility.

Legolas now rode at the head of the column, behind only Adelforod, the scout that had been sent with the company. Legolas’s mighty hunting bow was strapped to his back beside a quiver of turkey-fletched arrows, and a sword hung on his hip opposite a purse holding flint and his bowstring. His white mare pranced beneath him, asking him to give her her head to run; Legolas reined her in, keeping her to a slow, steady walk that matched the rest of the company.

He had met the Rivendell envoy at the edge of the forest one day past. They were seated, resting their horses and eating an early lunch, when Legolas and his Elves arrived. Lord Elrond, clad in simple tunic, jerkin, breeches, and riding boots, distinguished only by the thin silver circlet on his brow, rose and bowed formally to Legolas as he dismounted.

“Well met, Thranduilion,” Lord Elrond had said, smiling warmly then and stepping forward to clasp Legolas’s arm in greeting.

“Well met, my lord,” Legolas had replied, feeling odd. Never before had Lord Elrond bowed to him, as he would to an equal whose realm he was in. “I trust your journey was good,” Legolas added, pushing away the strangeness of the moment.

“It was uneventful,” Lord Elrond had said. “So yes, it was good—though long. We will be happy to be able to rest safely and warmly in beds.”

“I’m afraid you have another four days until then,” Legolas had said remorsefully.

Lord Elrond laughed. “I know,” he said. “But please, do not begrudge this old Elf his dreams.”

The journey had continued to be uneventful as they climbed steadily northward toward the Mountains of Eryn Galen. They traveled mostly in silence, though Legolas had taken the time to reacquaint himself with Lord Elrond’s twin sons, who were both dear friends of his. He had not seen them in nearly fifty years, and there was much about their lives they had not been able to convey in letters.

“And how is Arwen?” Legolas had asked as the sun began to set. He had been riding between the twins, and they were nearing their first campsite. It had been a poorly-kept secret that Legolas had been besotted with Arwen the moment he had laid eyes on her, back when they were both still children. Though his feelings for her had since waned, he still cared for the young Elf maiden dearly, and was always asking after her welfare.

“Arwen is well,” Elladan said. “She sends her love to you and to your father. She wanted to come along as well, but our mother persuaded her to remain in Imladris with her. Something about “Time to spend with my daughter”, I think.”

Legolas had grinned. “Send my love to her and to your mother as well,” he had said.

“We will,” Elrohir had promised.

Now Legolas turned at the sound of hooves striking a quick tempo against the hard-packed dirt of the path. He turned in his saddle to see the twins riding up the line, one after the other, their faces grim, their brows drawn low over their stormy silver eyes. They fell in with him, Elrohir beside him, Elladan half a pace behind, and drew their geldings to a walk to match stride with his mare.

“Hello,” Legolas said, uncertain as to what had drawn the twins to him.

Elladan smiled in return, but Elrohir did not. The younger twin simply looked at him with a somber expression. Legolas cocked his eyebrows in silent question.

“Does the forest feel...strange to you?” Elrohir asked in answer.

“Strange how?” Legolas asked.

“Like we’re being watched,” Elrohir said.

Legolas shrugged, feeling a strange sense of relief. Judging by the twins’ faces, he had expected something far more dire. “The forest has eyes of its own,” he said simply. “It always has, and it always will. You grow accustomed to it.”

Elrohir’s frown deepened. “I have been here before,” he said, sounding half accusatory. “I have never felt something like this before.”

Legolas turned to Elladan. “And what of you, Elladan?” he asked. “Do you feel these eyes?”

Reluctantly, Elladan shook his head. Legolas knew he never liked to disagree with his brother—at least, not when when another was involved. He didn’t mind arguing with Elrohir himself; in fact, Legolas suspected he quite enjoyed arguing with his brother at times.

“I don’t feel anything,” Elladan said. Quickly he added, “Though that doesn’t mean I think Elrohir is wrong.”

“No,” Legolas said slowly. “It doesn’t.” He looked ahead to Adelforod and called, “Adelforod, scout the area ahead. I don’t want any surprises.”

Adelforod, a pale-haired, pale-eyed Elf a few hundred years older than Legolas, turned in his saddle and bowed at the waist. “As my prince commands,” he said, then kicked his mare into a canter. He disappeared into the mist-strewn trees a moment later.

“Thank you,” Elrohir said with a soft smile.

“Of course,” Legolas replied. He trusted Elrohir—and Elrohir’s instincts—both of which had saved him and Elladan more than once. He was not about to start ignoring his friend now.

Adelforod returned as the sun was setting and the Elves were setting up camp.

“My prince,” he said, drawing near. His horse was ground-tied near the other horses, lathered with sweat but calm and cropping grass contentedly. “I bear news.”

Legolas drew away from the others, retreating to the shadows cast by the fire already burning a half dozen paces from the road. Adelforod followed.

“What news?” Legolas asked.

“It is the river, my prince,” Adelforod said.

“What of it?” Legolas asked.

“It runs dry.”

Shock ran cold through Legolas’s stomach, chest, heart. “How is this possible? The mountain rivers have never run dry for so long as I have been alive. And given the rain that has fallen these past three days, one would expect it to be overflowing its banks—not run dry.”

Adelforod looked troubled. “Something else, my prince,” he said hesitantly.

“What is it?” Legolas asked.

“The forest. It is silent. I heard not a single bird, nor saw a single fox or deer in all my travels today.”

“You think that was because of more than the storm?”

It had rained again late in the afternoon, thunder and lightning accompanying the downpour. The Elves had drawn up their hoods and bent their heads forward against the driving winds, trudging on up the path that had turned to sucking mud. Even now the ground was soft and laden with water; sleep that night would be uncomfortable.

“I do not know, my prince,” Adelforod said. “All I know is what I saw.”

Legolas nodded and reached out, gripping Adelforod’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “You did well.”

Adelforod bowed. “Thank you, my prince,” he said. “Now, if I may be dismissed, I should go tend to my mare.”

Legolas nodded again. “You are dismissed.”

He returned to the fire lost in troubled thought. Sitting on a log that had been drawn near to the fire to serve as seating, he put his chin in his hands and stared into the flames.

How had the river run dry? As he had told Adelforod, they should have been worrying about the opposite—about the road being washed out, about bridges being flooded. Not pondering why the river was barren.

“You look troubled, young Legolas.”

Legolas jolted, surprised by the voice. Looking up, he saw Lord Elrond standing before him. Before he could even open his mouth to try to explain himself, Lord Elrond had seated himself on the log by Legolas’s side.

“What ails you, Prince?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head. “It may be nothing,” he said. “But then again, it may be something.”

“What might this _something_ be?”

“Please my lord, don’t trouble yourself,” Legolas said after a moment in which he weighed his options—confide in the Lord of Rivendell and receive his aid and advice, or deal with the problem on his own as a competent Prince and commander would.

Lord Elrond arched an eyebrow, and Legolas almost caved. But then he strengthened his resolve and stood. “Dinner should be ready shortly,” he said, turning and looking toward the fire where two Elves were bent over a pot of stew. The hunters had shot three rabbits earlier in the day, and it was their meat simmering in the sauce. “Please, do not worry yourself about a thing.”

Lord Elrond’s other eyebrow joined the first, but then he rose. “As you say, Prince Legolas,” he said, and smiled. Then he turned and disappeared around the other side of the fire, toward where his sons were seated.

After a few moments, Legolas joined them. The river would still be there in the morning, and he could do nothing about the silence of the forest. He would post an extra guard that night, but otherwise, there was nothing to be done. He would enjoy himself tonight, he decided—would spend his evening with good friends eating good food, and would get a good night’s rest.

He would deal with his problems in the morning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back. Sorry for the long wait in updates. As I think I told you last chapter, this is one of my side projects, not my main one, so updates will probably be sporadic. Sorry :( I'm already working on chapter 3 though - and these chapters are shorter than most chapters I write, so that should help me get these out faster... But anyway. I hope you enjoy

Chapter 2

_ The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

Dawn came early and grey, and with it, rain. The company packed up their camp in grudging silence, hoods drawn low over their faces, their breath clouding in front of them. It was eerily chilly—a damp, wet chill that sunk through the flesh and into the bone, a sharp contrast to the moist warmth of the day before.

They mounted up as the darkness of dawn gave way to the grim light of day. Silence still reigned as they guided their horses back onto the road—it was mud now, save for the odd stone bravely lifting its head above the muck—and no one spoke as they kneed their mounts into a slow walk.

Within an hour they were at the foot of the mountains. They rose sharply up before them, craggy bluffs and tumbles of rock left from an ages-old glacier, stunted pine trees clinging to the cracks in the stone and sheer cliff faces. The path wound ever upward, leaving the gentle slopes of the hills behind for steep rises and abrupt ridges.

They rode on in continued silence, the only sound that of the jangle and squeak of tackle, their horses’ breath, and the showers of dirt and gravel sent down the inclined path, disturbed by their horses’ hooves. The higher they got, the more oppressive the silence became, until it was a blanket smothering them, sealing their lips and freezing their tongues. Even the sounds of tackle, breath, and grit grew muted, until it was barely audible.

The air grew colder and sharper the higher they rode, but rather than thinner it grew thicker, heavier, stronger. Breathing became laborious, a task rather than an instinct.

Legolas spurred his mare forward down the line, drawing abreast of Celebint.

“Greetings, Celebint,” he said. The silence broke like glass on stone, ringing and echoing in the ears of those who heard it.

“Greetings, Prince,” Celebint replied. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“Have you ever felt the forest such?” Legolas asked. “So...pensive? So thick?”

Celebint shook his head. “No, my Prince,” he said. “I was going to come find you soon if it did not abate. Something here is amiss, though I cannot say what.”

“The river has run dry,” Legolas admitted in a soft voice. “Though I doubt it is the cause of this strange cold and humidity.”

Celebint frowned. “Run dry?” he asked. “How is that possible?”

“I do not know,” said Legolas. “I thought that, once we reached it, we could investigate further, perhaps find the cause of it.”

“Indeed,” said Celebint. “Well, we are approaching the waterfall. Perhaps we can at least determine the amount of time since the water has run dry.”

It was Legolas’s turn to frown. “How can we do that?”

“Lichen often grows behind the waterfall, watered by the spray. We may be able to determine how long it has run dry be seeing how dead the lichen is.”

“Very well,” Legolas said. His frown deepened. “Do you think that the river running dry and the forest’s strange temperament could be connected?”

“I do not know,” said Celebint, “though I doubt it.”

Legolas nodded. “Thank you, Celebint,” he said, and then dropped back down the line to his previous position riding just ahead of the twin sons of Elrond.

“What was that about?” asked Elrohir, urging his gelding up the line to ride beside Legolas. Elladan urged his gelding forward as well, pulling his horse’s head into the space between Legolas and Elrohir so that he could hear what was being said.

“Something is wrong with the forest,” said Legolas. He turned a wry smile on Elrohir. “It would seem your instincts yesterday were quite correct. I am sorry for not taking you more seriously.”

Elrohir shrugged. “You took me seriously,” he told Legolas. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have sent Adelforod ahead.”

“Speaking of which,” Elladan put in, “did he find anything? You never said.”

Legolas ducked his head. Should he tell his friends about the river? Or should he keep the trouble to himself, to deal with on his own like a responsible and capable commander? What harm would telling his friends of his troubles cause, though? Perhaps they could help—by listening, even if they had no suggestions. Yet he wanted to prove to his father that he was ready to be a leader.

_ They are going to find out soon enough anyway, _ thought Legolas. He made up his mind.

“It’s the river,” he said, turning to Elrohir and Elladan. “It’s run dry for an unknown reason.”

The twins both frowned. 

“Odd,” said Elladan. “I would have expected the opposite, given all the rain that has fallen.”

Legolas laughed, one short, sharp bark. “That’s what I said. Yet it seems that’s not the case.”

Abruptly the ground to the right side of the path dropped away, revealing a broken and cracked gorge. It was dry, though the silt at the bottom of the ravine, peppered with dead and dying plants, indicated that it should have been filled with water.

The left side of the path, meanwhile, began to rise, slowly at first, then all at once. The ledge that the path followed circled around against the cliff face, climbing steadily higher toward the head of the ravine. It was narrow, however, forcing Elrohir and Elladan to drop back to single file once more, ending their conversation.

Ten minutes of riding later, they reached the head of the gorge. 

It ended in a sheer cliff face that rose four hundred meters into the air. Dead lichen clung to the wall, brown and crumbling, and small trees, their roots buckling the stone they grew out of, spread their boughs toward the sky. A small ledge crept from the main path across the head of the gorge, circling around to the top of the opposite wall.

“Halt.”

The order came from Celebint, riding at the head of the column. He lifted a fist, and the riders reined in their steeds, drawing them to a stop. Celebint dismounted, and Legolas followed suit. Behind him, Elladan and Elrohir dismounted as well, edging along the narrow gap between the horses and the drop toward Legolas.

“What is it?” Elladan asked.

“This was a waterfall not four days past,” said Legolas. “Celebint and I are going to check the lichen to see how long the waterfall has been dry—perhaps you two would like to accompany us?”

“Yes,” said Elrohir, after sharing a glance with Elladan. “We’d like that.”

“Good. Now, let us go.”

They crept their way up the line to Celebint, who was waiting a few paces ahead of the horses. Legolas hesitated at the first rider, then looked up at him and said, “Take this time to eat an early lunch and water the horses.”

“Aye, my Prince,” said the rider.

“Pass the order down the line,” Legolas ordered.

The rider bowed, then turned to pass on the order.

“Let us go,” said Legolas, turning back to Celebint and the twins standing beside him.

“Might I come along too?”

Legolas whirled, startled by the sound of Lord Elrond’s voice. He found himself face-to-face with the Lord of Rivendell, stately and regal even in riding gear.

Legolas weighed his options. On the one hand it would be rude to refuse Lord Elrond’s request. On the other, Legolas wanted to handle this on his own. Yet perhaps the Lord of Imladris could offer insight that he would otherwise miss. Was his pride really worth solving this mystery?

Swallowing his pride, Legolas nodded. “Of course, my lord,” he said.

Lord Elrond smiled. “Thank you, Prince Legolas,” he said graciously.

“Now let us see what we can see,” said Legolas, turning to Celebint and the twins standing ahead of him.

The small group started forward, Celebint in the lead. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for them to reach the place where the ledge met the path. They walked mostly in silence, though the twins would occasionally murmur to one another. Legolas wondered of what they spoke, but did not want to interfere with their private conversation to ask.

The ledge leading across the head of the gorge, behind where the waterfall usually fell, was narrow and treacherous. Walking single file, the five of them carefully stepped onto it, making their way toward the lichen that hung from the rock a dozen paces away.

“It is freshly dead,” said Celebint, after a moment of examining the lichen. “Not a day old. I would guess then that the river has been dry for two or three days.”

“So it ran dry shortly after we passed it on the way down,” said Legolas.

“It would appear so, my Prince,” said Celebint.

Legolas turned to the twins and Lord Elrond standing behind him.

“Well, we know something now,” he said. “That’s more than we did before.”

“How can this help us?” asked Elladan.

“I’m not sure,” said Legolas honestly. “But the more information we have, the better we can combat whatever is causing this.”

“We should head back, my Prince,” said Celebint. “I believe we have learned all that we can here.”

“Agreed,” said Legolas.

With Elrond leading the way, the five of them retraced their steps back to the main path. It was slow going, and with each step Legolas sent a cascade of pebbles over the edge. He tried not to look down, knowing that doing so would likely result in him freezing, if only for a few seconds.

When he reached the main path again, Legolas found that Lord Elrond was waiting a few paces away. He fell in step with Legolas as Legolas began to make his way back toward the line of riders and his mount.

“Anything I can do for you, my lord?” Legolas asked, looking up at the tall Elf lord walking beside him.

“What do you intend to do about this quandary?” Lord Elrond asked.

“About the river?” Legolas clarified.

“Yes,” said Lord Elrond. “Do you intend to address the issue now, or take news of it back to your father and let him deal with it?”

That was not something Legolas had thought of. He frowned. “I suppose I could bring it back to my father,” he said slowly. “My task  _ was _ only to bring you and your envoy to my father’s palace, not to investigate the mystery of the river…” He trailed off, thinking.

_ What do I do? _ he wondered.  _ Which would impress my father more? That I took the initiative and resolved the issue, or simply completing the task that was assigned to me? _

Legolas took a deep breath. “I think—” he began, only to be cut off by Lord Elrond’s hand fastening painfully around his upper arm, dragging him to a halt. Celebint, who heretofore had been behind them, walked past, shooting them a quizzical look. Legolas shook his head, then nodded toward the line of horsemen, indicating that Celebint should continue on.

“My lord?” Legolas asked, turning to Elrond and looking up at him.

Lord Elrond looked down at Legolas. His silver eyes were a stormy grey, his look hard and heavy. Legolas’s heart shuddered beneath the weight of it; it felt like a lodestone on his chest, on his heart, on his lungs. The look pinned him to the ground, rooting his feet to the hard-packed path, fell upon him like a veil—fell  _ into _ him like a star, painfully hot and painfully bright. It felt as if Lord Elrond was looking into his very mind, his very soul, leaving his every thought laid bare.

“My lord?” Legolas gasped, forcing the words from between lips that did not wish to move. “My lord, are you well?”

Elrond blinked, and it was as if a shutter opened—as if a curtain peeled away from behind his eyes, giving Legolas an unfettered look into the Elf lord’s soul. It was a stormy, swirling silver, filled with a song that Legolas could only hear as if in an echo—a melody so haunting, so beautiful, so achingly eternal that Legolas wanted to weep from joy, from sorrow, from infinite hope. 

Then something else rose behind the Elf lord’s eyes, something dark and cold and ancient. It was black—black like a starless night, like a sealed crypt—and filled with an old malice deep enough to swallow him whole.

_ Die! _

The scream came on the trailing ends of the haunting melody twined with Lord Elrond’s soul, chasing the echoes of it, stealing and corrupting the memory of it. It was high and shrill, chilling in its intensity, terrifying in its cruelty.

Legolas stood rooted to the ground, cold to the bone and too terrified to move. He trembled, elbow still locked in Lord Elrond’s painful grasp, breath shuddering in his chest as he struggled to breathe.

“A storm is coming.” Lord Elrond’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, achingly hollow and distant. It seemed as if the darkness surged with his words, gaining power as it glutted itself on each consonant, on each syllable.

Then the strange, haunting melody in Lord Elrond’s soul rose in triumph, turning from echo to a thousand strains of harps, fiddles, drums. Light flared behind his eyes—light of gold and silver, the two twined together into one impossible hue that Legolas had never even dreamed of—rising against the darkness.

For an instant—for just an instant—it seemed to Legolas that, if he could only just reach out—if he could only touch the melody, drink of it and sing of it—he would be able to unravel the secrets of the future, of the present, of the past.

But he could not move—could not even breathe. He could only stand, frozen and transfixed, terrified and glorified, Lord Elrond’s words ringing in his ears, the melody ringing in his soul, in his thoughts, in his heart. 

Lord Elrond blinked, and it was as if someone had blown out a candle. The light vanished, the opened shutter snapped shut, the curtain dropped. The melody fell silent, the haunting strain torn away from Legolas’s reach with such savage abruptness that Legolas felt he would weep.

Legolas stumbled. Only Lord Elrond’s hand still fastened around his elbow caught him from falling to his knees. 

“Are you well, Legolas?” he asked, concern sinking into his stormy silver eyes and into the curve of his lips. 

Legolas straightened, fighting to control the shaking that had taken control of his body. “I’m fine,” he said shakily, still not certain what he had just witnessed. “Are...are  _ you _ well, my lord?”

“I’m fine,” said Lord Elrond. 

Indeed he seemed fine—seemed better than Legolas, even. He was steady on his feet, and the only thing in his eyes and on his face was worry. There was no trace of the darkness that Legolas had seen, no trace of the melody that had so haunted and entranced him.

“It is you I am concerned about,” Lord Elrond said. Still holding onto Legolas’s elbow with one hand, he pressed the back of his other hand to Legolas’s forehead, then his cheek. “Have you ever had issues with mountain air before?”

“No,” said Legolas. Then, quickly, he added, “I’m fine now.” He hesitated, then asked, “You’re sure you feel fine, my lord? No dizziness, or other strange feelings?”

Lord Elrond shook his head. “I’m truly fine, Legolas,” he said.

“We should get back to the others then,” said Legolas, stepping away. Lord Elrond released him, and Legolas took another step back. “We don’t want them fretting.”

“Agreed,” said Lord Elrond, though he still looked concerned. “Come,” he said, and led the way back toward the rest of their party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so, so sorry it's been so long since I updated. Second of all, it shouldn't ever be this long again. I have through chapter 15 written and basically ready to go, and I'm churning out a couple of chapters a day. I intend to update every three or four days, though I may be willing to update more frequently based on reader response I get... (so if you want more sooner, review/comment!) Regardless, again, my apologies...and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

_ The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

Together Legolas and Lord Elrond returned to the line of horsemen. Many of the riders had dismounted and were gnawing on jerky or bread, drinking water and wine while their horses stamped and snorted as they waited.

“Is all well?” Elladan asked, appearing at Legolas’s shoulder. A second later Elrohir appeared on his left.

“You were gone for a while.”

Legolas frowned. “How long?”

“At least ten minutes,” said Elrohir.

Legolas stopped, shocked. “That long?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Elladan. “Did something happen?”

Legolas shook his head, then hesitated. Should he share what happened with Lord Elrond’s sons? They would perhaps know what had happened--might at least have some insight into what he had seen in Lord Elrond’s face and eyes. Yet, at the same time, what had happened felt personal to Legolas. It felt that, by telling the twins what he had experienced, he was betraying Lord Elrond’s confidence.

“I will talk to you later,” he muttered to them, and looked beseechingly first at Elladan, then at Elrohir. “Just...let me think on it first.”

Elladan and Elrohir shared a look over Legolas’s head, then nodded. “Very well,” Elladan said. “We are here to listen, though--you know that, do you not, Legolas? We are your friends. You can trust us.”

Legolas forced a smile. “I know that,” he said. “Which is why I will tell you about it--just not now. Not yet. Not until I try to make some sense of it myself.”

“Very well,” echoed Elrohir.

“My lord,” said Celebint, approaching. “We should continue if we want to make it to the next campsite by nightfall.”

“Agreed,” said Legolas. He gave the signal for the riders to mount up.

A moment later they were off, climbing past the mouth of the gorge and into another, smaller ravine that ran parallel to the riverbed. The walls closed in, until the riders’ boots were brushing the stones jutting out from the cliff faces. The light grew dim overhead.

It began to rain, hard. Water dripped down the cliffs and splashed on the Elves’ heads. Many of them drew up their hoods to shield their faces and hair from the rain, blue for the Elves from Rivendell, green and brown for those from Greenwood.

Then they were free. The cliff walls dropped away, revealing a long, sloping field dotted with boulders and wildflowers. Legolas’s mare snorted and pranced, glad to be free from the ravine, her hooves sending splatters of mud up her legs and onto her underbelly. Legolas shook his head fondly; he would have to curry her extra long that night to get her clean.

A pine forest stood above them, at the end of the wildflower-dotted field. The rain dripped from bough to bough, needle to needle, to soak the rich loam beneath into a sucking mire. The hard-packed dirt path was already turning to mud as well, driven into pocks and puddles by the driving rain.

Legolas hunched his shoulders and put his head down just enough to let the hood of his cloak shield his eyes, while still being able to see the path ahead of him. His face was still soaked in minutes, though, water running down his cheeks to drip from his chin.

What was he going to tell Elladan and Elrohir? The truth? But what if they didn’t believe him? Frankly, Legolas wasn’t sure he believed  _ himself _ . What he had seen was impossible—wasn’t it? Then again, Lord Elrond was of the house of Luthien, of Melian the Maia. What was impossible for any normal Elf might not be impossible for one of the descendants of Melian.

Whether or not Elladan and Elrohir would believe him, however, was still unknown. Unless they had experienced something similar in their lives—they, too, were of the descendants of Melian, after all. Was this normal for them then? Legolas had never heard of it before, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. It could be a closely-held, closely-kept secret.

That begged the question, though: Did he even believe himself? Did he believe what he had seen?

Yes. Yes, he knew what he had seen. He had seen the storm in Lord Elrond’s eyes, had seen the darkness, had heard the melody. He was certain of it.

But what did it mean?

Had it been a vision? A portent? A warning?

If so, where did it come from? Eru? The Valar? Or something else—something he did not know or understand, that was the root of Lord Elrond’s precognition? Lord Elrond was well-known as someone who had visions of the future; true prophecy was very unusual, but it was well-known that the children of Melian had always had the gift. So it could have been a vision, a portent, a warning.

It had felt like a warning.

He still had not answered the question about whether or not he would tell Elladan and Elrohir, though.

If he did not tell them the truth, what  _ would _ he tell them? What could he tell them that would sate their curiosity?

If he didn’t tell them the truth, he would have to lie—and he did not want to do that. Not to his dear friends.

Unless there was some way that he could tell them half a truth? The truth, but without telling all? Perhaps that Lord Elrond had told him something alarming? But then he would have to tell them what Lord Elrond had said. That he had given a prophecy? But Legolas did not know it was a prophecy. That he and Lord Elrond had simply been talking? But they would want to know why he had been so cagey and uncertain afterwards.

That left the truth, unless he wanted to lie straight to their faces—a lie which they would soon find out was a lie, no less.

Legolas sighed. He did not want to lie to his friends anyway.

That meant he would have to tell them the truth.

Turning, Legolas found Elladan and Elrohir, riding side-by-side through the long grass and wildflowers. He reined in his mare, falling back in line until Elladan and Elrohir passed to either side of him. Overhead, the shadow of the forest swallowed them, and the rain slackened some, having to fight its way through the tree branches to reach the Elves riding beneath.

“You wanted to know what happened?” Legolas asked, turning first to Elrohir, then to Elladan.

“Yes,” said Elladan.

“I saw your father have a vision. Or, at least, I think it was a vision. His eyes were stormy, and there was a darkness that arose in them—a black, evil, malicious darkness that shrieked. And there was a melody—a haunting, aching melody behind it all, silver and gold and beautiful, infinite. He told me, “A storm is coming”. Then, when he came back to himself, he had no recollection of what had happened.”

Elladan frowned and looked at Elrohir. “That does not sound like a normal vision,” he said.

“No,” said Elladan, shaking his head. “No, it does not.”

Legolas looked at them quizzically. “What about it was unusual?”

“Well, for one thing,” Elrohir said, “Adar remembers his visions afterwards. For another, I’ve never heard of there being a darkness in him when a vision happens. That seems…strange, and disconcerting.”

“You’re sure he had no recollection of it?” Elladan asked.

“Certain,” said Legolas. “He was concerned for my wellbeing, and when I asked after him, he said he was fine. He just seemed confused.”

“We should talk to him about it,” said Elrohir.

Elladan nodded.

“You should accompany us, Legolas,” said Elrohir. “You were, after all, the one who saw it happen.”

Legolas shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “If you think so,” he said.

Elrohir smiled. “What, you’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“No,” said Legolas, stung. “I just am…wary.”

“Of what?” Elladan asked.

“Your father is intimidating,” said Legolas truthfully.

Elladan laughed. “He won’t bite,” he promised.

“I know,” said Legolas, already regretting telling his friends of his discomfort.

Elrohir reached over and clasped Legolas’s shoulder. “He  _ is _ intimidating. But you have nothing to fear from him.”

Legolas offered a weak smile. “I know that,” he said.

“Good,” said Elladan. “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure it would not be wise to wait until tonight?” Elrohir asked.

“I don’t see why we should,” said Elladan. “It won’t change anything.”

“He may be more at ease. You know how tense he gets when travelling.”

Elladan shrugged. “I don’t think this is something that should wait.”

Elrohir inclined his head. “Very well then. Shall we?”

Before they could draw rein to fall back to Lord Elrond’s position, however, Adelforod appeared, riding down the line at a brisk trot. He wheeled his mare when he reached Legolas and the twins, however, moving into position beside the elder of Lord Elrond’s sons.

“My lord prince,” he gasped, pushing his hood back and away from his forehead and hair. His face was white, his expression grim, and there was a nervousness about both him and his mount—the way he held his reins, keeping the mare’s head high, and the way the mare sidled and pranced despite Adelforod’s firm grip—that set Legolas’s teeth on edge.

Something did not feel right.

“What news have you?” Legolas asked.

“I have found the cause of the river’s dryness,” Adelforod said, voice as taught as his shoulders. “My lord, the river is dammed. The valley has flooded. Lake Pass is no more.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is chapter 4! Thank you to those of you who reviewed/commented/messaged me this last chapter - I will be replying (hopefully) tonight. I'm not entirely sure how pleased I am with this chapter, but I don't know how to fix it, and I have to run out the door to go to work...so it's going to be left like this, at least for the time being. Still, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

 “Well,” said Legolas, staring down at what had once been a sunken valley, “this is a problem.”

Behind him, Elladan snorted. “That, my friend,” he said, “is an understatement.”

The party of ten—Legolas, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Celebint, Adelforod, and three Huntsmen—stood at the top of a sloping rise. The trees ended fifty paces behind them, the pines straggling off amid ferns and loam before disappearing altogether. Before them the valley of Lake Pass opened up before them, long and narrow, sunk deep into the peak of the mountain. An arch of rock rose like a sentinel over the narrowest point of the valley, and once, beneath it, filling all but the narrowest of paths to either side, had once been a deep lake.

Now the lake, and the valley, were gone.

Water filled the valley, stretching up, up, up the path until it crested the last rise and became mountain once more. It stained the walls of the cliffs to either side, reaching with clawing fingers toward the summit and the arch of rock overhead, bubbling and frothing with brown-capped waves. Even the tips of pines that began again at the foot of the path down into the valley were gone, sunk beneath the waves, swallowed by murky water and devoured by darkness.  

There was no way through, and no way over. Legolas knew all too well the treachery of the cliffs that rose to either side of the valley; he had climbed them on dares in his youth, and again later as tests and trials of his strength and daring. They were barely passable to an Elf, and utterly impassable for a horse.

“What now?” Elrohir asked, looking first at his father, then at Legolas, and finally at Celebint. Beside him, Elladan asked, “Can we go around?”

Celebint shook his head. “This is the one safe pass through this mountain range. The rest is craggy cliffs and insurmountable ridges. We will have to retrace our steps and go all of the way around the mountains. That is,” he said, catching himself and looking guiltily at Legolas, “if my lord prince agrees.”

Legolas nodded. “I see no other course of action,” he admitted, tasting defeat. It galled him to be so helpless in the face of this natural disaster, unable to find a way to fix the problem. Unless he could… “Celebint,” he said, looking at the Marshall, “could we perhaps drain the valley?”

“We do not even know the source of the blockage,” Celebint pointed out.

“But perhaps we can find it. It must be in the river leading out of the pass, at some point or another. Perhaps, if we can find the blockage and remove it, we can pass through once the water has receded. That may be faster than going all of the way around the range.”

Celebint inclined his head. “You are wise, my prince,” he said.

“What do you think, Adar?” Elladan asked, looking at his father, who had remained silent at the back of the party throughout the conversation. One of his eyebrows was lifted slightly, and he had an unreadable expression on his lips and in his eyes.

“I think this is Legolas’s command,” he replied evenly, betraying no other indication of his thoughts. “I believe we should follow his lead here.”

Legolas bowed slightly, a mixture of relief, awe, and gratitude sweeping through him. Though perhaps he should have expected it, given Lord Elrond’s interactions with him thus far during the journey, he had expected the Elf lord to jump in and dictate what it was he thought they should do in the present situation. He was, after all, considered one of the Wise—in fact, one of the wisest of all beings still residing in Middle-Earth. Privately, Legolas supposed he was one of the wisest in all of Arda. That he was bowing to Legolas’s lesser knowledge and experience, all because of his supposed position of leadership, was both aweing and inspiring, and made Legolas want to prove himself capable all the more.

“Let us find the source of the blockage, then,” Legolas said, as firmly and confidently as he could manage.

They turned their horses and nudged them into a trot, then a slow canter, with Legolas in the lead. They returned to the shadow of the trees, allowing the shade to swallow them in its cold embrace, then cut across the forest toward where the river emerged from the deep ravine it had carved amid the cliffs. From there, Legolas hoped, they would be able to track the blockage to the source.

After riding for nearly a quarter of an hour, they reached the dry river. It was sunk deep into the earth, nearly twenty feet distancing the bank from the bed. There they reigned in their horses, and dismounted.

“What now, my prince?” Celebint asked, once he had ground-tied his mount and come around to stand in front of Legolas.

“Now we follow the river,” Legolas said, dusting his gloved hands together. He looked at the three Huntsmen, and motioned for them to stay with the horses. Elladan and Elrohir would protest if they were left behind, it would be rude to leave Lord Elrond out, and Legolas needed both Celebint’s insight and Adelforod’s quick thinking and quicker speed, if a message was to be sent. “We will return shortly,” he promised the Huntsmen, then nodded to the rest of the party. “Shall we?”

They turned left and followed the dry riverbed through the trees. As they walked the ravine in which the river would have run grew deeper and deeper still, until it was more of a cliff than a riverbank. Still, however, there was no sign of a blockage.

The way grew more difficult. Tongues and fingers of stone rose from the dry ground, forcing the Elves to climb their way around and over boulders and pitfalls. Legolas began to sweat slightly in the chill but humid air.

At last, after half an hour’s silent, steady trekking—in which Legolas twice thought to break the silence, but then felt the oppression of the air and the stillness of the trees around them, and held his tongue—they reached the mouth of the river, where it flowed out of Lake Pass and into the gorge. There, at long last, they found what had caused the river to cease its running.

Half of a mountain had been dumped into the ravine. Huge chunks of rock fit together in a jumble of cracked stone and crumbling grit, and broken tree trunks were wedged between them, fat and brown against the rocks’ beige and grey. Soil collected at the bottom and in the cracks, and vegetation that had been ripped free during the slide of stone and tree lay dead and dying, in varying stages of browning.

Legolas’s heart sank.

“I don’t understand,” said Elrohir softly from beside Legolas. He was perched on top of a small rock, arms crossed, feet spread wide to keep his balance. “How could this have happened?”

“Rock slides are not uncommon in the mountains,” Celebint pointed out.

Elrohir flushed. “I know that,” he said defensively. “But this seems like more than just your common rock slide. Even on Caradhras we rarely find such tremendous devastation, from avalanche or rock slide—and your mountains are far less treacherous and temperamental than Caradhras.”

Legolas looked between Elrohir and Elladan, then at Celebint on his other side. It was Celebint’s turn to flush, though only slightly.

“Our mountains are treacherous in their own way,” he said, the first tinge of haughtiness creeping into his tone. “While it is true that rock slides are not common here, their devastation is—”

Legolas tuned him out and focused his attention on the rocks, trees, soil, and vegetation holding back the river and flooding Lake Pass. This was far worse than he could have imagined; there was no way even a team of his father’s engineers would be able to remove this obstacle without a great deal of time, effort, and manpower. They did not have any of that here with them.

No, there would be no removing the blockade. They would simply have to retrace their steps and go around the mountains, as Celebint had initially suggested. That would take nearly thirteen days, though—ten days Legolas knew his father was not anticipating. They would send a hawk with news to Thranduil as soon as they returned to the main company, but Legolas could not imagine that his father would be pleased, even with knowing what had caused the delay.

“Prince Legolas?”

Legolas started and turned quickly, heart leaping into his throat. It was only Lord Elrond. His silver eyes were clouded, his mouth firmed into a thin line.

“Yes, Lord Elrond?” Legolas asked, trying to calm his heart. “What can I do for you?”

“I believe it wise to return to the others at once,” Lord Elrond said.

Legolas frowned. “Is something amiss?”

“I know not,” said Lord Elrond. “Only that I feel a warning in my heart.”

“What kind of warning?” Legolas asked.

“My instincts are not so finely honed that I can tell you the future,” said Lord Elrond dryly.

“But you _can_ see the future,” Legolas pointed out.

“Only sometimes,” Lord Elrond replied.

Legolas relented. “My apologies,” he said, and bowed slightly. Then, raising his voice, he addressed the rest of the party, who were still arguing with growing tension about the differences between the Mountains of Eryn Galen and Caradhras, and said, “Let us return to the others.”

It would be foolish to ignore the wisdom and instincts of Lord Elrond, Legolas knew—even if he did want to stay and examine the rock slide more closely; the more information he could provide his father the better, and perhaps the more pleased, and less displeased, he would be.

They were halfway back to the horses when, with the suddenness of a lightning strike on a clear day, an arrow struck the ground mere centimeters in front of Legolas’s boots. He froze, looked up and into the trees at the angle of the arrow’s flight—and there, crouched in the tree branches, Legolas saw an Orc.

“Look to the trees!” he cried, hand flying to his belt pouch and pulling out his bowstring. He ducked as another arrow flew through the air, spearing where his shoulder had been mere heartbeats before. Beside him, Legolas heard someone grunt in pain, though he dared not look to see who had been hit.

Drawing his bow from his back, Legolas strung it in one quick movement, then pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it. He drew in a breath even as he drew the bowstring, and then released as soon as sighting. The Orc on the tree branch shrieked and fell—right into the boiling mass of Orcs thundering out of the underbrush towards them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duunnnnn. And so the action begins... What did you think? Was it as awful as I feel like it is? Let me know! I'll update again on Wednesday - unless I get 5 comments, in which case I'll update whenever I get those comments. So if you want more, review away! I look forward to hearing from you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at chapter 5! I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 5

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

It was chaos.

Hundreds of Orcs bellowed as they charged, voicing tribal war cries and shrieking with bloodlust, trampling ferns and weeds and flowers in their mad rush. They were armed and armored: disks and plates of metal sewn onto leather tunics and breeches, half moon helms that covered only part of their heads and faces, and battered wooden shields; haphazardly crafted spears, and dinted and notched swords.

 _At least they are only wild Orcs,_ Legolas thought as he threw away his bow and drew his sword. _If they served a higher power, they would not be so rag-tag…_

Then the Orcs were upon them, and all thought but battle was driven from Legolas's mind.

The lines of Orcs and Elves came together with an audible crunch. Orcs threw themselves onto the Elves' swords, howling and screaming death cries that fell into gurgles and retches as they died. Legolas wrenched his own blade out of the chest of one Orc and spun, hacking at a second that lunged at him with a snarl and an upraised blade. That Orc died too, a smiling gash carved in his unprotected throat.

Side-step, parry, thrust. Legolas danced forward and back, slashing and blocking, ducking and weaving in and out of death and victory. Orc after Orc fell at the sting of his blade, crying out in fear and pain and anger, only to be trampled by their companions.

He fought two, three, four, five Orcs at once, spinning and dashing in and out of range, parrying and parrying and parrying before lunging in to take the life of one Orc, only for another to take its place. Sweat dripped into Legolas's eyes, and he dashed it away with his free hand. It was hard to breathe through the humidity and through the adrenaline and fear coating his throat.

He had never before been in such a frenzied or dire battle. Ever before he had had someone else at his back, protecting his blind spots, aiding him whenever more than one Orc would attack at once. This time, though, he was alone—utterly, entirely alone, no one else even within earshot of him should he need to call for aid.

Where the others had gone, Legolas did not know. All he knew was that, when he looked around, all he saw was a seething sea of Orcs crashing on every side, pushing him deeper and deeper and deeper still into the trees. Were the others dead? Had they all been slain? Or were they simply elsewhere and being separated from one another, just as he was?

Legolas did not know, and so he killed, and killed, and killed, and struggled to fight his way back toward where they had been attacked—back to where the others might be, or might have left a sign, or might be dead.

He was not impervious to injury either, though. One Orc scored him along his right sword arm, a long and deep gash that wept crimson tears. A second Orc stabbed him through the left shoulder, leaving that arm hanging and all but useless. A third Orc slashed him across the chest; only a quick backwards step had saved his life. Instead of carving open his lungs and heart, there was only a shallow, seeping cut torn through flesh and the cloth of his tunic and leather of his jerkin. A fourth Orc opened a long, stinging line along his right cheekbone a moment later, releasing scarlet blood that painted half his face with a running mask.

An Orc lunged, hacking down and in with a curved scimitar. Legolas parried the blow, then ran the Orc through with his own sword. His blade caught in the ribs, and Legolas's weapon was torn from his hand as it toppled to the ground and lay still. Reaching down, Legolas tried to free his blade—only to duck away a second later as another sword arced down and embedded itself in the first Orc's leg, where Legolas had been standing a mere instant before.

Cursing, his blade gone, Legolas spun, searching for a weapon he could easily claim and use. His eyes fell upon the Orc's scimitar, lying on the ground a scant few feet away. He lunged and rolled, coming up beneath yet another swing of yet another blade, his hand closing around the scimitar's hilt as he went up on his knees, then his feet. The weapon was clumsy in his hand, badly balanced and poorly crafted—but it was a weapon nonetheless, something with which he could defend himself, with which he could keep himself alive in the wake of this devastating tidal wave of enemies.

The Orc that had nearly taken off his arm shrieked with wordless rage, then lifted his head and howled. Legolas did not take his eyes off of the thing, sinking into a crouch with his new sword held deftly in his right hand. His arm shook, pain from the cut in it causing him to tremble—but Legolas gritted his teeth and forced himself to hold firm and steady, breathing in and out with calming surety.

He would survive this attack. He would survive, and tell the tale of it to his children, and his children's children. Just as Elladan and Elrohir would survive, and Lord Elrond, and Celebint, and Adelforod, and—

Something hard struck Legolas in the back of the head, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the deal. I update again Saturday evening...unless I get 3 reviews. At 3 reviews, I post the next chapter (if it's before Saturday evening). Sound fair? Either way, you definitely get it Saturday...but you get it sooner if you review. (I love hearing from you all, and I'm not above blackmail to get you to talk to me ;))


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

Elladan landed on the ground, Elrohir on top of him, and he _felt_ the thud of the arrow impacting flesh. Elrohir grunted in pain, and for half a heartbeat he went limp on top of Elladan as consciousness fled.

“Ro?” Elladan asked, squirming out from underneath his brother. He rolled over and pushed himself up onto his knees, then turned to face Elrohir, lying still on the ground beside him. An arrow protruded from his back, the shaft thick and black and painted with a thick, red substance that reeked faintly.

Poison.

Elladan cursed. “Ro,” he said again, and grabbed his shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Ro, wake up.”

Elrohir groaned, and his one visible eyelid—the other was pressed against the forest floor, his head cushioned on the ground—fluttered. “Dan,” he croaked. “Ouch.”

Elladan grinned shakily—and then the rest of the world filtered in through the terror for his brother: the screams, the shouts, the clangor of metal against metal, the fresh scent of blood and spilled entrails and voided bowels. He looked up—and saw an Orc barrelling straight toward him and Elladan, curved and stained sword upraised.

Leaping to his feet, Elladan drew his blade and stepped over Elrohir. He met the Orc with a crack of steel against steel, and then blood fountained into the air as Elrohir took off the Orc’s head with a well-placed blow to the Orc’s neck. The headless corpse fell, spasming, to the ground, then lay still—revealing ten more Orcs charging. Elladan set his teeth and jaw, gripped his sword, and sank into a defensive crouch, ready to do battle. He did not know how he would survive this attack, let alone defend Elrohir, but he would die trying.

They attacked as one, fanning out into a circle and closing in on Elladan and Elrohir behind him. Elladan spun on the balls of his feet, knocking away one sword and hacking at the haft of a spear as it was thrust toward him, shattering it. The Orc threw the ruined half of the spear at him, and Elrohir ducked, batting it away. Three other Orcs took the opening he left them, striking with bellows of rage and triumph.

Their blades bit into Elladan’s unprotected side, stomach, and back. He screamed, falling to one knee, his leather jerkin doing little to protect him from the blows. Two more Orcs hollered with victory, lifted their blades, and prepared to deliver the killing blow.

A wordless, nearly soundless roar echoed through the trees. The Orcs froze, uncertain, and looked over their shoulders. A blur of shadow streaked with silver struck them, metal flashing in the dim light as it bit, bit, bit into their flesh, releasing black blood, felling one, then two, then three, then four of them in swift and lethal blows to the chest, neck, stomach, head.

Elladan knew that shadow, knew that voice, knew that sword, though he had never seen it stained with Orc blood before. It was his father, Elrond Half-elven, though in a light Elrohir had never seen him in before. Very suddenly, he was no longer the scholar and lord of a peaceful haven; very suddenly, he was the warrior who had fought in the War of Wrath, the War of Sauron and the Elves, the Last Alliance.

Very suddenly, Elladan knew what it was to be afraid of his father.

The rest of the Orcs turned from Elladan, still on one knee, and attacked Elrond. He parried deftly with his slightly curved and glowing blue sword, Hadhafang, then ran another Orc through, cutting out of the side of his stomach and arcing his blade up to behead a sixth.

“Elrohir,” their father bellowed, even as he ducked two swords and a spear, and shattered the kneecap of one of his assailants with a kick. “Get Elladan back to the company. Tell them what is happening. Bring us aid.” Then he stepped back another pace, drawing the ravaging Orcs away from the twins, and stabbed one of them in the chest.

Elladan felt an arm wrap around his chest beneath his arms, then heard Elrohir say, “Come, brother. Quickly. Before the Orcs realize what has happened.”

“But Ro,” Elladan panted, fighting nausea and pain, “Father…”

“Father can take care of himself,” Elrohir said dryly. “Or so it would seem. And neither of us are going to be of much help right now. Come. Let us go.”

Elladan staggered to his feet with Elrohir’s help. Then, supporting each other, the two of them turned and hobbled their way away from the battlefield behind them, retreating into the safety of the trees. Elladan chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, his free hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his side, and saw their father decapitating the last of the ten Orcs who had attacked them, then turning and yelling an ancient battle cry that caused the Orcs before him to whirl, snarling and savage, and attack.

 _I hope he will be all right,_ Elladan thought, fear clogging his throat and making it difficult for him to breathe. _I know he is doing it for us, to give us a chance to escape, but...but what if he is injured? What if he is killed?_

No. No, he could not think that way. Their father would be all right. He would survive, and would meet up with them again, once they had brought the company of Elves to eradicate the last of the Orcs. They would laugh and talk about this later, once everything had returned to normal, and Elladan would go back to thinking of his father as only a scholar and lord of a peaceful haven.

Stumbling and panting, half-running and half-limping, Elladan and Elrohir, still supporting one another, made their way back the way they had come. The ground grew rougher, the terrain more difficult, and their pace slowed. Then, once the sounds of battle had died away, Elrohir turned them in a large circle, guiding them around the Orcs and toward where they had left the horses and Huntsmen.

It took them nearly three hours to reach their destination, as they had to make a large circle away from, then around the battlefield. They moved increasingly slowly, until they were staggering rather than walking. Elladan grew lightheaded, blood soaking and drying in his tunic and breeches. It was difficult to move, and even more difficult to walk, and as time passed, he leaned heavier and heavier on Elrohir’s comforting stolidity.

The time dragged on with inexorable slowness. Surely the battle was over by now, whether for good or for ill. By the time they reached the company, it would be too late—would it not? Surely their father would have known it would take them a while to reach the horses, and even longer to reach the party. If that was the case, however, surely he would not have sent them away—would he?

A new thought struck Elladan: he had been saving his sons, knowing that he himself would die.

But no. Surely that was not what he had done. Was it?

One foot in front of the other. Then another step. Then another.

The trees were grey and brown in the dim and fading light. Elladan began counting them as he passed. One, two, three. There was one with a fork in its trunk, likely formed by a lightning strike. There was another with a twisted series of interlocking boughs. There was another with thick, broad leaves that glistened in the cold dampness. There was another with a hole bored into the trunk. There was another with a huge knot. There was another whose branches reached nearly to the ground. Fifty, seventy, one hundred.

A neigh of greeting shook Elladan out of his stupor. He looked up—to see his gelding, Fainaew, trotting toward them, reins dangling to the ground. Elrohir’s horse followed behind, head lifted high and hooves lifting higher in a prance of greeting.

“We made it,” Elrohir breathed from beside Elladan.

“That we did,” Elladan whispered, reaching for Fainaew. The gelding, a dappled white horse with black stockings and a black snip in the shape of a bird’s beak, lowered his head to rest on Elladan’s outstretched hand.

“There you are, my lords,” one of the Huntsmen, an Elf Elladan thought he remembered was named Faelmor, said, following in the wake of the horses. He hesitated when he saw that it was only Elladan and Elrohir. “But where are the others?” he asked, and then his eyes grew wide. “And my lord, you are covered in blood! What happened?”

“Attacked,” Elladan gasped.

“Orcs,” Elrohir added. “We were attacked by Orcs. Please, we must go warn the others.”

“Father—” Elladan began—only for the world to swoop around him in a dizzying circle. He collapsed to his knees at last, leaned over, and vomited, though whether from pain or exhaustion or blood-loss he could not say.

“Easy there, my lord,” Faelmor said, rushing over and kneeling beside Elladan. He gripped Elladan’s shoulder and held him steady as he retched, one hand keeping his braid of hair from dropping into his face. On his other side, Elladan felt Elrohir sit heavily on the ground.

“What is going on?” another of the Huntsmen called, coming toward them, followed by his last companion. They paled when they saw Elladan and Elrohir on the ground, bloody and with bile at their feet.

“Elbereth,” breathed the third Huntsman. “What happened?”

“They were attacked,” Faelmor said, rising. “Quickly, we must get them horsed and ride for the others.”

The other two nodded, then ran back toward where the other horses were ground-tied.

“You first, my lord,” Faelmor said to Elladan. “Do you think you can stay ahorse?”

“I will if it kills me,” Elladan growled, lifting a hand to Faelmor. Faelmor took it, then helped him to his feet and over to Fainaew. Bracing him, Faelmor boosted Elladan into the saddle, then handed him his reins.

Elladan sank down against Fainaew’s neck as Faelmor went over to Elrohir, snapped off the end of the arrow shaft, and helped him to his feet as well. Blood smeared against the gelding’s white hide, but Elladan ignored that. He could always clean him later. “You’ll keep me up here, won’t you, boy?” he murmured to the gelding. Fainaew whickered, and looked back at Elladan with one ear cocked. Elladan smiled. “I thought so.”

The others appeared, leading their father’s, Legolas’s, Celebint’s, and Adelforod’s horses. “We thought it best not to leave them here alone,” said one of the two Huntsmen. Elladan nodded in agreement, and from the corner of his eye he saw Elrohir do the same.

“Come,” said Faelmor, mounting. “Let us ride as if the very hounds of Angband were on our heels.”

Elladan nodded again, not trusting himself to speak, and spurred Fainaew into first a trot, then a canter, then once he had warmed up, a gallop. The others did the same around him.

Once more, Elladan sank into a stupor. He watched the trees pass them in a blur, blinking owlishly and swallowing thickly against the nausea still crawling at his throat. He clung to Fainaew’s mane, giving the gelding his head and trusting him to follow the others. It was all Elladan could do to stay seated.

Still he grew more and more lightheaded. He was losing more and more blood. Already he could feel the faint, drifting sensation that accompanied too much blood loss; as the ride stretched on, and on, and on, he began to lose sense of himself. The world turned white around the edges, and Elladan lost the feeling in his fingers, hands, and feet. The pain too began to recede, leaving in its place only empty, aching, hollow yearning.

Nothing. Then a hard, sharp jolt.

Elladan opened his eyes to see the boughs of pine trees overhead, beyond which was the sky. It began to rain.

 _What happened?_ he wondered—and then reality sank in. He had fallen from his horse.

Fainaew’s warm nose nuzzled at Elladan’s chest, and he touched the gelding’s muzzle. It was soft beneath his fingers, though he could barely feel that through the drifting nothingness that had stolen half of his body.

“Hello,” he whispered to his mount. “Did you come back for me?” The gelding whickered, and Elladan smiled.

A savage gust of wind suddenly tore through the trees, whipping them into a frenzy, howling and wailing and keening as it bent tree trunks halfway down to the ground and tore needles from boughs to send them spinning through the air. Elladan blinked dumbly up at the trees, uncertain of what he had just witnessed.

Hoofbeats, and then the thump of feet on the needle-strewn ground. Elladan blinked again, and saw Faelmor above him.

“Come, my lord,” he said. “You will ride with me.” Then, hoisting him up, Faelmor helped Elladan to mount his own mare, settling behind him once he was seated. Strong arms wrapped around Elladan’s waist, and he allowed himself to sink back against Faelmor’s chest.

He was tired—so very, very tired. And at last, at last, at last, as Faelmor kicked his mare into a gallop once more, he allowed his exhaustion to slide over and claim him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys, I am so, so, SO sorry. My life has gone absolutely batshit this last week or so (crippling panic attacks, multiple consecutive mental and emotional breakdowns, loss of control over emotional regulation...) and I completely forgot about updating this. Again, I'm so, so, SO sorry. To make it up to y'all, I'll go ahead and post the next chapter tomorrow (though I'd still love to hear from you guys!) I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 7

_ The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

Legolas came to slowly. He groaned, then blinked heavy eyes against the light of the day. They slid shut again as soon as they were open, protecting his sensitive eyes from the grey light, as dim as it was. He was sore and aching, and his wounds stung and burned like fire. Swallowing thickly, Legolas tasted something cloying and sweet on his breath, causing him to swallow again reflexively—then he froze. 

_ No, _ he thought, sluggishly, _don’t swallow. Don’t breathe. You have to get that out of your mouth._

Forcing his eyes open once more, Legolas tried to sit up—only to find himself bound, hand and foot, with thick ropes. “Well,” he said softly aloud, “this is not good.”

Laughter. Legolas looked up, blinking once more against the light, and saw an Orc wearing a fur cloak walking toward him. He wore a scimitar similar to the one Legolas had used on one hip, and a buckler was strapped to his back. He wore a helm that covered most of his face, and walked with a swagger.

“Little princeling is finally awake,” the Orc captain sneered, and kicked at Legolas once he was near enough. 

Legolas grunted, curving his body with the kick to soften the blow, and thought again, _This isn’t good._ He had only been a prisoner of Orcs once before, and that had not been a pleasant experience. He did not relish revisiting that particular time in his life, nor reliving it. That time, however, he had not been alone; that time, he had not been the focus of the Orcs’ attentions. That would not be the case now, it would seem.

The Orc captain stooped, then lifted Legolas up by the hair. Legolas gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, and fought to keep his expression blank and neutral. The less fun the Orcs got from you, he had been taught, the less likely they were to torment you.

“I hope you will never have to put this information into practice,” his father had told him some five hundred years before. They were once more sitting in Thranduil’s office, though there were steaming mugs of cider and plates of scones and pastries on the desk. They had been talking late into the night, and the topic of conversation had turned to whether or not Thranduil had ever been kidnapped by Orcs.

“A few times,” Legolas’s father had told him, though the look in his eyes told Legolas he may be minimizing the truth for his son’s sake. “None of those experiences were pleasant. They enjoy torture and torment—which in some ways is lucky for us, because it gives us a chance to rescue our people before they are killed. It leaves indelible scars on many, however—scars that never heal for some. As a prince, you are likely to be targeted,” his father went on, “either on the battlefield for capture, or once you have been captured for torment. Take strength in the knowledge that someone will _always_ come for you, however,” his father had finished. He had taken a long drink of cider then, and picked up a blueberry scone. “If I do not come for you personally, someone else most certainly will. That is an oath I swear to you, my son.”

_ He will come for me, _ Legolas told himself, as the Orc captain laughed in his face, spraying spittle onto his cheeks and into his eyes. _Or someone will. Even if you are alone now, you will not be alone for long._

“Little princeling is in for some fun times,” the Orc captain said, and dropped Legolas back to the ground. “The Master will be pleased. Already he comes to claim you as his prize.”

Legolas frowned. Of what did the Orc captain speak? Who was this master? Another Orc? Someone to whom the Orcs had sworn loyalty? But if it was someone else, who could that person—or being—be? It took a special kind of being, usually one of great malevolence, to inspire Orcs to swear oaths of fealty and obedience. In fact, the only ones he could think of that had ever bound Orcs in fealty were Morgoth, Sauron, and their high-ranking captains, such as the Witch-king of Angmar. 

Shaking his head against the ground, Legolas chided himself for that line of thinking. Morgoth had been defeated and cast into the Void two Ages ago, and Sauron had been defeated with the taking of the One Ring by Isildur over a thousand years before. With them had gone their captains, into darkness and ruin.

No, surely this was just another Orc captain—one higher than the captain now leering down at Legolas, one who had fought and formed the loyalty of more than one Orc clan. That made the most sense. That also spelled trouble for Legolas.

Unpleasant times were ahead of him.

Looking down at himself, Legolas saw a thick, black paste slathered across his chest, shoulder, and arm where he had been injured. It smelled faintly of herbs and alcohol, and made his nose wrinkle in disgust. It burned against his skin—but the pain that had been present for so much of the battle was gone, replaced with a dull, distant throb that was half memory. 

Legolas had heard of Orc healings, of course. They were crude, if effective, made to bring the wounded Elf to fighting condition—usually for more torment. Legolas had never experienced one before now, but he knew what it was he was looking at.

It would likely scar, he knew, even if those scars would fade over time. Still, he was glad in the moment for the pain to be gone. He would rather face the Orcs able to stand and fight than already at a disadvantage from dizziness and agony.

Looking around himself, Legolas saw nearly a hundred Orcs milling about at the lip of the hollow in which he lay. Some dozen were sitting close by, cleaning and sharpening weapons in the waning afternoon light, along with the Captain who was still speaking overhead.

“You will become an asset to my Master,” the captain was saying. “You will be transformed into a living weapon against your own kind, and you will serve him until your dying breath.” He grinned then, and leaned down to pat Legolas’s cheek. “I will enjoy breaking you,” he added, then turned and swaggered away.

Legolas’s stomach turned over. He would never serve any Orc, no matter what that Orc did to him. Of that, he was certain. He was also certain, however, that some _very_ unpleasant days were ahead of him before he could be rescued.

Resting his head against the ground and closing his eyes, Legolas took in one deep breath, then another. He would make it through this, and he would be the stronger for it. He would. He would, he _would_. The sickly sweet taste in his mouth rose into his nose, and threatened to swallow him. His thoughts felt sticky and unnaturally slow, and Legolas wondered what it was he had been fed. Time slowed around him, turning into a steady stream that did not touch him, did not affect him, did not alter him. He was separate from it, apart from it, distinct from it. He was only Legolas, adrift in a sea of lonely fear and terrifying expectation

Leaf litter slid against loam, and then racing footsteps approached Legolas. He opened his eyes as shouts echoed around the hollow, and he looked up—to see Lord Elrond Peredhel crouch by his side, a dagger in one hand. With two swift, deft movements, the ropes binding Legolas inert were cut, and then a vice-like grip fastened around his upper arm, dragging him to his feet.

“Run!” Lord Elrond shouted at him, pushing him toward the edge of the hollow. Legolas did not hesitate; he ran. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Orcs who had been sitting next to him leaping to their feet, grabbing ahold of their weapons as they rose, bellowing in increasing anger and desperation. They lunged forward—but even injured, Legolas and Lord Elrond were faster than them.

The edge of the hollow rose before them, and Legolas scrambled up it, using both feet and hands. Leaves and loose soil rained around him, falling away from beneath his fingers and the toes of his boots, dancing as they cascaded around Lord Elrond and down to the floor of the hollow.

They reached the lip of the hollow. More Orcs were there, confused and startled, still grabbing weapons and rising from where they had been lounging. Lord Elrond leapt forward, dispatching two of them with one quick blow, opening a way for them to escape. Then he turned, pressed his sword into Legolas’s uninjured right hand, and once again shouted, “Run!”

Legolas ran—only to pause, when he realized Lord Elrond was not behind him. His thoughts, still muddy and sluggish, took too long of a second for him to realize what was happening.

“But what about you?” he shouted, turning, and taking one frantic step back toward Lord Elrond, who was standing between him and the forming line of Orcs.

“I said run,” Lord Elrond repeated—and this time there was something hard and heavy in his tone, a song unsung and a voice unspoken, urging and compelling Legolas to obey. Exhausted, numbed, thoughts sticky with drugs, Legolas did not have the wherewithal to fight the command.

He ran.

At first there was the sound of battle from behind him: shouts and screams and one high, terrible note of song that made Legolas’s ears bleed. The blood was hot and sticky against the skin of his jaw, itching and tickling, and Legolas reached up to dash it away. Then the sounds of contention faded, leaving only him and the patter of his footsteps and the rush of his breath and the whispering of the trees for company.

Tree after tree rushed past. The ground slid out from underfoot. Legolas did not know where he was going—did not know where he _was_ , and so had no way of knowing even what direction he was heading, for the sun was obscured by clouds. He only knew that he was running _away_.

Guilt rose in his stomach then in his chest. He had abandoned Lord Elrond to his doom, had he not? He was weaponless and defenseless against nearly a hundred Orcs. Not even Fingolfin of old could have faced down those odds—could he have? Though Lord Elrond was a scion of the house of Fingolfin, and was a hero of his own right—or so Legolas had been told by members of his father’s court who had fought alongside him in the Last Alliance—could he win against such impossible odds?

Legolas doubted it.

That meant he had left Lord Elrond to die, and for what? So that he himself could escape and live? How disgusting—how cowardly—was that action? It was horrendous. It was terrible. It was unforgivable.

He had failed. In every sense of the word, he had failed. For all he knew, everyone else was dead—and now Lord Elrond was dead as well. He had failed to undam the river. He had consigned all of his people to death or torment. He had abandoned Lord Elrond when he needed him most.

What kind of commander was he? A cowardly one. A despicable one. And, once again, an unforgivable one.

Crashing came from behind him. Legolas looked over his shoulder, and through the trees he saw movement: Orcs, rushing heedlessly and headlong forward, trying to eat up the distance between them and their quarry. 

Legolas blinked back tears. So Lord Elrond _had_ fallen. Some part of him had not yet believed that was possible, though he had told himself it was inevitable. Lord Elrond had fallen, he had slowed from exhaustion and despair, and the Orcs were catching up. Lord Elrond’s sacrifice had been pointless; he was going to be recaptured, whatever evil was going to befall him would befall him, and there would be no one again to stop it from happening.

_ No, _ Legolas told himself. _No! I won’t let his sacrifice be in vain._

He quickened his pace, forcing himself faster, and faster, and faster still until his breath came in panting gasps, his side stung, and his wounds ached and throbbed beneath the Orc healing salve. He was dizzy and lightheaded, and everything in him screamed for him to stop, to rest, to wait for whatever came for him.

Where was he even going, though? What chance did he have, unless he could find shelter and safety—a defensible place where he could fight off the Orcs? What hope did he have of winning, exhausted and wounded as he was, against what? fifty? seventy? a hundred Orcs?

The trees thinned, then abruptly came to an end. Legolas slid to a halt, throwing his arms out for balance, stopping himself just before he plummeted over the edge of a ravine. He looked down, down, down, and saw beneath him the dry bed of the dammed river.

Legolas whirled just in time to see the Orcs crash out from between the trees. There were twelve of them, all with blood trickling from their ears and eyes and noses, all of them with blood staining their teeth, all of the furious.

“Princeling _brat_ ,” one of them spat, and lunged for Legolas.

Remembering the sword in his hand, Legolas lifted it and cut in, slashing the Orc across the chest. He fell back with a howl, clutching at his riven skin pouring black blood.

“Brat,” he cursed again, “you’ll pay for that.”

Legolas flourished Hadhafang and said, “You’ll regret it if you draw near.” His words sounded braver than he felt.

The Orcs rushed him. Legolas stabbed one, parried a second’s blow, then ducked a third. He spun, Hadhafang whirling in an arc before him, cutting through the hand of one Orc then embedding in a second’s chest. Legolas lifted a foot and shoved, then used the Orc’s fallen body as leverage to leap into the air and twist, coming down on top of a third. He cleaved that Orc’s head in twain, crunching through bone and cutting through brain.

A blade bit into Legolas’s back and he stumbled and nearly fell, a gasp and a grunt escaping him. He turned, bringing Hadhafang up in a defensive cut, and metal struck metal with enough force to numb Legolas’s hand to tingles.

The Orc reached out and seized Legolas by the throat. Legolas cut up, severing the arm attached to the hand. The Orc howled, then kicked Legolas back. Legolas stumbled, stumbled, stumbled, his exhausted and pained body betraying him.

He was betrayed again by the slope of the land. He tilted, then fell, sliding back, back, back, over and over until the air opened beneath him and embraced his body. Legolas screamed, reaching with his injured left hand for a hold, any hold, any way to halt his fall. His fingers latched around a protruding stone, and he jolted to a halt with enough force to reopen the wound in his shoulder, even through the drying paste.

Looking up, Legolas saw the Orcs appear above him. The two of them with missing limbs were cradling their severed arms against their chests, eyes spitting fury, the blood on their faces turning their expressions black and ominous.

“Lookit the princeling,” one of the Orcs said. “We got him right where we want him.” The rest of the Orcs laughed.

“Help me,” Legolas gasped. “Unless you want me dead, _help me_.” His grip was faltering, his fingers sliding and his wounded arm shrieking in agony.

The Orc who had spoken grunted, then knelt. “Maybe we do want to see you die,” he said haughtily.

“I don’t think your _Master_ would be very pleased,” Legolas pointed out. Though he did not want to spend any time as an Orc plaything, he would rather be alive and rescued after a few unpleasant days than dead at the bottom of a ravine.

The Orc snorted. “I think I’m gonna leave you here for a few more minutes,” he said. “You killed my friends, and maimed more of them. You deserve to suffer.”

Legolas’s grip slipped another fraction of an inch. He dropped Hadhafang, and it fell to the ground far below with a clatter and a clang of metal against stone. Reaching up, Legolas grabbed onto the same rock with his right hand, just as his left arm gave way. 

“I’m going to die,” he said calmly—as calmly as he could. “I am going to die unless you help me.”

The Orc laughed. “Yes, you are,” he said, “but not today”—and then choked, a dagger appearing through his throat.

“No,” Lord Elrond said from above him, “but you are.”

His face was covered in blood and bruises, and his hair was in matted and bloody disarray. One arm was crooked against his side, and he favored one leg. His clothes were stained and dripping with red and black ichor, and he was breathing heavily through a mouth full of blood.

Legolas’s grip slid, and he clutched tighter to the protruding stone. He could not fall—he _would_ not fall. Not now when help was so near.

The rest of the Orcs bellowed and turned on Lord Elrond, who wrenched the dagger free of the first Orc’s throat and attacked. Legolas watched with desperate fascination as Lord Elrond killed one, two, three Orcs with it, then shoved another two screaming over the edge of the ravine.

Legolas’s grip slid again, and he held his breath with desperation. He was barely holding on with his fingertips, and his left arm hung useless at his side.

The remaining four Orcs turned and fled.

Lord Elrond knelt in front of Legolas and said, “Hold on, young prince.” He reached down—and caught Legolas by the wrist just as his grip faltered and failed.

Lord Elrond’s face paled and he grunted with pain. For a second he strained, trying to drag Legolas back up and over the edge of the cliff—but all he managed was to slip forward himself, his broken arm grappling at the ground for purchase.

Legolas looked up at Lord Elrond, and in the sudden calmness of his heart, knew what he had to do. “Let go,” he said softly.

Lord Elrond did not reply.

“Please, my lord,” Legolas said. “Let go. Save yourself.”

Lord Elrond opened his mouth—and began to sing, even as he slid forward another inch. It was a strange, haunting melody that Legolas had never heard before. It was painful to listen to, though not in the shrieking way that the song from the hollow had been; this one did not make his ears bleed. Instead, it made his heart bleed with the pain of  something long-forgotten and long-unknown, something lost to the depths of time and the realm of the unknowable.

The breeze picked up around them, first as a gentle gusting, then harder, and harder still as a stiff wind. Then, very suddenly, as if a gate had been opened and a great monster unleashed, the wind exploded around them, buffeting Legolas hanging from the cliff, tearing at and cracking the trees on the cliff above them. A great, grinding _crunch_ came from the near distance, and Lord Elrond’s song reached a peak.

“What are you doing?” Legolas gasped through tears and shredded breath, torn away by the wind. “Just let me go.”

Lord Elrond’s eyes slid back into his skull, his grip faltered, and he slid over the edge of the cliff.

“No!” Legolas screamed—even as his own grip failed and he too fell.

He was going to die, as was Lord Elrond. After everything, and in spite of all odds, they had survived the Orcs. Now, though, they were going to die at the bottom of a ravine.

A roar crashed through Legolas’s ears. He seemed to be falling in slow motion, time dilating around him. He turned his head, and saw, with a great shock, a wall of water rushing toward them. He barely had the time to drag in a deep breath before the wall of water slammed into him—and Legolas knew no more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't actually upload this chapter the next day! I was going to, and then my internet went out, and then Real Life happened upon me, and I didn't have the time/spoons or I forgot... So I'm so, so sorry! As an apology I'll upload two chapters today.

Chapter 8

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

It was nearly dark by the time they reached the company. Fornind, one of the other two Huntsmen, had lit a torch he carried in his pack, and held it aloft at the head of the narrow column they formed. Gaernin, the second of the other Huntsmen, carried a second torch at the middle of the column, and the riderless horses followed along behind on a crudely fashioned string.

When they arrived, it was to find that the company had made camp. Two large fires were burning just off of the road, deer carcasses roasting over each of them. Tents had been erected and bedrolls laid out, the horses contentedly cropping grass and eating oats from their feed bags.

The sentry on duty gave a warning whistle as they approached, quickly followed by the signal for “friend”. He started when he truly saw them, however; they were haggard and half of their party was missing, and both Elladan and Elrohir were covered in blood.

Elladan lay unconscious in Faelmor’s arms, his blood running down to stain the sides of the saddle. Whenever he saw that, Elrohir’s stomach gave a great, painful lurch; just how much blood had his brother lost? They had stopped to bandage him twice, but still he bled. How much more blood could he lose before he was beyond aid? Not much; of that, Elrohir was certain.

“Where is Maltor?” Fornind called, as soon as they were within hailing range. “We need her at once.”

Maltor, if Elrohir recalled correctly, was a Huntsman who functioned as a healer for one of the companies. She had accompanied the squad sent to escort the Rivendell entourage as a precaution, rather than as a necessity. No one had expected to actually need her.

They had not brought a healer with them; Elrohir’s father was all that they had expected they would need with them. He was, after all, one of the most skilled healers in Middle-earth—if not the most skilled. That they would need anyone else had, at the time of their departure, seemed ludicrous. Now Elrohir wished they had brought another.

Maltor, a young elleth with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, appeared at the edge of the firelight. Her eyes widened when she saw them, Faelmor handing Elladan down to Gaernin, who had dismounted first, relinquishing his torch to Elrohir. Elladan slumped against Gaernin, body limp and head lolling, and once more Elrohir’s stomach clenched at the sight of his brother.

Would he be all right? Would he survive?

Elrohir dismounted stiffly and painfully, shivering. The air seemed colder than it had before, and Elrohir glanced longingly at the fires burning brightly fifty yards away. How he longed to sit by one and warm himself, driving this chill from his flesh and bones.

Faelmor appeared at his side, Aravadhor hurrying up a few steps behind. Aravadhor was one of the Captains of Imladris, and he had led the forces of Rivendell to Eryn Galen under Lord Elrond's command. They had left him in charge while the rest of them went to scout for the river's dam.

“Come, my lord,” Faelmor said, taking Elrohir by the elbow and leading him toward the nearest fire. Aravadhor was at his other side, supporting him with a hand beneath his arm. “Let us see to that arrow in your back.”

It was difficult to move. After so long in the saddle, and the long walk before that, the arrow had been driven deep into his flesh and muscle. Elrohir suspected it had impacted bone—an unpleasant thought, and an unpleasant prospect. Removing it would be painful and laborious.

Elves, many of whom had clustered at the edge of the firelight to see what was happening, moved aside to let Faelmor and Elrohir pass. Faelmor led Elrohir to a log dragged over to the edge of the fire, and motioned for him to sit. Elrohir obeyed, shivering, and straightened as much as he physically could, trying to decompress his lungs. It was growing more and more difficult to breathe.

Turning, he watched as Elladan was laid out on a cloak spread out on the ground on the other side of the fire, Maltor directing Gaernin and another Elf who had come to help him. Elladan remained unconscious, blood already beginning to stain the blue cloak beneath him.

“Someone fetch me my bags,” Maltor snapped. She had eyes only for Elladan, though, as she knelt by his side and, drawing her belt knife, began to cut away his jerkin and tunic.

“Here, my lord,” said Faelmor, returning from somewhere beyond the circle of firelight. He carried a wineskin and a waterskin, as well as his belt knife. “First, let us get you out of your jerkin.”

Elrohir obliged, undoing the fastenings at the front and painfully pulling it from his back. Aravadhor aided him, guiding the leather around the arrow shaft embedded in his back.

“Easy there,” Aravadhor said kindly when Elrohir hissed in pain. “Take it slowly.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you lay down as well,” Faelmor added, once the jerkin was off and lying beside them.

Elrohir nodded and first knelt on the sodden ground, then stretched out. Water soaked through his tunic front and breeches, but he ignored it in spite of the cold. The fire was warm on his side and back, and on his face when he turned it toward the flames. He could just make out Maltor on the other side, bent and working over Elladan.

Cloth ripped as his tunic was cut. Elrohir shivered again as cold, night air washed over his bare skin, causing rippling gooseflesh to grow on his skin.

“You have experience removing arrows, do you not?” he asked Faelmor worriedly, as he felt colder water splash over the wound in his back.

“Much experience,” said Faelmor. “Though I was a warrior in Oropher’s army during the War of the Last Alliance, I also served as a temporary medic during the darkest of days. I have removed more than my fair share of Orc arrows.”

Elrohir nodded against the ground, then took a deep drink of the wine that Aravadhor offered to him. It was dry and strong, and it tasted good against the pain.

“Steady now,” said Faelmor, bracing one hand against Elrohir’s bared shoulder. “This is going to hurt.” Elrohir felt Aravadhor shift beside him, then hands closed over his back, holding him flush against the ground.

Elrohir nodded again and gritted his teeth. The chill of metal, colder than the night air or the water, pressed against his skin, causing Elrohir to jump.

“Steady,” Faelmor repeated, and Aravadhor pressed down—and the knife sank into Elrohir’s back, cutting deep and deeper still into his flesh. He clenched his jaw and swallowed a cry, hands grasping at the grass that grew from the rich soil by the road.

Two long, deep cuts later, Faelmor removed the arrow. Bone cracked as he wrenched it free, causing Elrohir to gasp. Faelmor cursed softly. It was over, however. Faelmor handed Elrohir the wineskin a second time, and Elrohir took a grateful gulp, still trying not to cry out. Though the pain was less sharp now than it had been, there was a residual ache and fire in his back that made him want to holler.

He did not.

Aravadhor released him and Faelmor rinsed out the wound, stitched, and bandaged it, then helped Elrohir to sit up gingerly. He maneuvered Elrohir so that he was leaning against the log behind him, tattered tunic gathered around him, legs stretched out toward the fire and Elladan on the other side, and then disappeared once more. When he returned a moment later, it was with a second waterskin.

“Now,” he said, crouching down beside Elrohir, “drink this.” He handed him a small cup filled with a dark liquid that smelled vile. Elrohir knew exactly what it was; he had been forced to drink this particular concoction before. While it was disgusting, however, it did its job well—after drinking it, the pain in Elrohir’s shoulder and body faded away to a dull murmur rather than the incessant, agonizing throb it had been.

“And now we try to flush your system—though I doubt it will do much good. The poison has already had a chance to enter your bloodstream for hours.” He handed Elrohir the waterskin. “Drink.” Elrohir obeyed.

“Now,” said Aravadhor, settling himself down on the ground beside Elrohir, “tell me what happened.”

Elrohir told him everything, from the finding of the river's blockage to the Orc attack, to being wounded to he and Elladan running for their lives at their father's command.

He shivered yet again at the finish. He felt vaguely nauseous, and his head was beginning to throb. He shoved away his discomfort, however, and turned his focus away from Aravadhor and to Elladan across the fire.

Maltor was stitching his side. Her movements were quick and sure, deft with the ease of long practice, and her hands were stained with blood. Elladan's blood. The thought made Elrohir's stomach turn over, and he wanted to throw up.

“Go to him,” Aravadhor said softly.

Swallowing bile, Elrohir forced himself to his feet and walked around the fire. He knelt by Elladan's side, looking over his brother's inert body to focus on Maltor. She did not look up at him, but kept her eyes on her task.

“Will he live?” Elrohir asked softly.

“Only time will tell,” said Maltor, still not looking up. She hesitated, hands stilling for a fraction of a second before resuming their word. “Truth be told, my lord,” she said, “I do not know how he still lives. He should have bled out an hour ago.”

A thrill of horror raced through Elrohir's blood, and his throat momentarily closed with fear. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, the blood of Men, Elf, and Maia makes us hardier than most.”

Maltor smiled, though she still did not look up. “So it would seem,” she said. She canted her head to one side, then at last flicked her eyes up to his, her hands stilling. “Are there any other accounts of you Peredhil not bleeding out when you should have?”

“Yes,” Elrohir said simply. “Stories tell of a battle during the War of the Last Alliance when father once bled out for five hours before passing unconscious. Glorfindel likes to tell that story when he is particularly irked with my father and wants to remind him of his own mortality. The five hours detail is one that Elladan and I only managed to extract after a great many tellings.”

Maltor’s smile morphed into a smirk. “I see,” she said, then shrugged and returned her attention to Elladan’s side, which was the last of the wounds to be stitched. “Well, perhaps it is a quirk of your unique physiology then,” she said, and Elrohir nodded.

“That would make a great deal of sense.”

They lapsed into silence as Maltor finished her work on Elladan, Elrohir sipping at the waterskin Faelmor had given him. When at last she was done, Maltor sat back on her heels and surveyed her work; Elladan was neatly stitched, though his bare torso was smeared with scarlet blood and his eyes remained closed.

Turning to her supplies, Maltor gathered a waterskin in her bloody hands, uncorked it with her teeth, then poured it over her fingers and palms, washing away the red. Once her hands were clean, she dug out bandages and began to dress Elladan’s wounds, first smearing salve over the lines of stitches, then binding white, linen cloth over them.

“Thank you,” Elrohir said softly when she was done. “You have done the house of Elrond a great service today, Maltor.”

Maltor bowed her head, smiling softly. “It was my duty—and my pleasure, my lord.” She hesitated, then asked, “Pardon my offense, but which twin are you?”

Elrohir laughed, the sound surprising even him. “I am Elrohir,” he said.

Maltor nodded. “Lord Elrohir then, might I see to your own wound?”

“Faelmor saw to it.”

“I would like to make certain he did not miss anything. While he is a good field medic, he is no healer.”

Elrohir turned, taking another sip from the waterskin, and shrugged off the tatters of his tunic, baring his back for Maltor. She unbound the wound, then pressed cool fingertips into his back around the incision.

“He did well,” she said after a long moment. “There do not seem to be any fragments remaining within you, and though I believe he cracked bone when he removed the arrowhead, your ribs should heal quickly and well—though it may be painful to breathe for a week or two.”

Elrohir nodded. He was no stranger to cracked and broken ribs.

“Thank you,” he told Maltor again, and then pulled the tunic back on once Maltor had finished re-bandaging the wound.

“Of course, Lord Elrohir,” Maltor said.

“Please,” Elrohir said, turning and looking at the elleth, “just Elrohir.”

Maltor bowed her head in acquiescence. “Elrohir, then.”

A whinny shook the night air, and then there came the sound of hoofbeats fading away. Elrohir leapt to his feet and started toward where the horses were picketed, along with half a dozen other Elves. When they arrived, it was to see the Elf who was to watch the horses looking startled and alarmed. He saw Elrohir and blanched.

“Please, my lord,” he said quickly, “forgive me. I tied her, I swear it to you, but she must have pulled free, and—”

“Who?” Elrohir asked. “What has happened?”

“Your father’s horse. She has escaped.”

Elrohir cursed, but made no move to go after her. Avasath, his father’s midnight black mare, was as smart as Elven horses came, and twice as loyal. If she had sensed that her master was in trouble, there was nothing—no cord, no binding, no tie—that could have kept her from going to him. That she had waited this long to flee, however, was troubling to Elrohir; had she only just sensed his need? Or had something just happened that instigated her flight?

“Let her go,” Elrohir commanded, when he saw that two other Elves were preparing to mount bareback to go after her. “She will return to us when she is ready.”

“You have great faith in this horse,” said one of the two Elves, halting by his mount’s head, bridle in hand.

“She has been with my father for many years,” said Elrohir. As most Elven-bred horses from Aman did, she had far outlived her mortal brethren, and had been with Elrond for nearly an Age. Though old age would eventually claim her, if arrow or disease did not, she would likely live for another one. “I would trust that horse with my life, if it came to that. She will find her way back to us; of that I am certain.”

The question remained, though: where was she going? Should they in fact follow her? Perhaps she could lead them to Elrohir’s father, wherever that may be—either to his corpse, or to him. Or would it be better to wait and retrace their steps and go back to the site of the battle to look for him there?

It began to rain, hard, pelting drops that drove the mud into pock marks. Elrohir cursed silently. The decision was already being taken from his hands; with rain this hard, they would lose sight of the tracks within moments. They would never find Avasath now.

Elrohir turned back toward the fires and camp. He must find whoever was in charge and talk with them. They had to return to the site of the battle, and soon, if they were to bring aid to those who had fought—if any of them were even still alive. That thought clenched Elrohir’s already tight stomach, and he swallowed down bile.

 _No_ , he thought. _Do not think of that. They are alive. They_ are _._ _It is only a matter of finding them._

He reached the first fire. Elladan was still stretched out beside it, though someone had moved him into a bedroll and stretched a waxed tarp over him from the chin down to keep off the rain.  Looking around, Elrohir searched for Aravadhor. He did not see him.

“Faelmor,” Elrohir called, turning and looking at the edge of the firelight where many of the Elves stood and talked quietly amongst themselves. After a moment, Faelmor stepped into the ring of light, and came forward.

“Yes, my lord?” he asked.

“Where is Aravadhor?”

“Aravadhor, my lord?” Faelmor asked. “I believed he was with you.”

Elrohir frowned. Perhaps in his hurry and fear he had missed seeing the Elf Captain.

Turning, Elrohir scanned the Elves drifting here and there between the fires. There, walking purposefully toward them, was Aravadhor.

“Well, my lord,” he said to Elrohir when he drew near, “what do we do now?”

Elrohir frowned. “Why are you asking me?”

Aravadhor and Faelmor shared a glance. Then Faelmor said, his eyebrows rising, “Why, as the highest ranking noble here, you are in charge, my lord.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the next chapter.

Chapter 9

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

_Oh Elbereth,_ Elrohir thought, shock and panic racing through his blood and sinking into his aching bones. _Oh Elbereth, me? But I have never had my own command before._ He was nearing a millennia old, and his father had spoken with him of beginning his training as a commander in Imladris’s defense under Glorfindel, but that had yet to happen. He had already learned much from the Seneschal of Rivendell, and from his mother, father, and grandparents from observation—but observation did not prepare him for command in a tense and dire situation.

“Surely there is someone else who can lead,” Elrohir said, looking first at Aravadhor then at Faelmor. “Someone with more experience than I. Either of you, for example.”

Faelmor shook his head. “The Elves from Imladris will not follow me, or any of my Eryn Galen companions. We, however, are inclined to obey a noble, even one from Rivendell.”

“And I am obligated, by oath and duty, to obey a lord of Rivendell,” said Aravadhor. “I cannot assume command when one of my nobles is here.”

“What if I order you to take command?” Elrohir asked.

Aravadhor smiled ruefully. “You could do that. But doing so would likely engender ill will between the Elves of Eryn Galen and the Elves of Imladris.”

Elrohir frowned. He had not thought of that.

Elrohir shook his head. “I cannot…” he began softly, before trailing off. Swallowing thickly, pushing away the nausea and the pain in his head, he nodded. “Very well,” he said, sounding stronger than he felt. “Very well, I will take command. But I will rely on you for advice.”

Aravadhor bowed, and Faelmor said, “You honor me, my lord.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you Lord Elladan or Lord Elrohir?”

Elrohir smiled faintly, though this time he did not laugh. “Elrohir,” he said. He opened his mouth to tell Faelmor to abscond with the title, but then changed his mind. If he was to lead these Elves, then he needed to retain his authority with them. He took a deep breath.

“We need to find the others we left behind,” he said. “Either to recover their corpses, or to heal their wounds.”

Faelmor nodded. “I agree. It will take time to ride back to the site of the battle, however.”

“I know,” said Elrohir, “which is why I would like to leave at once.” He paused, then said, “However, we should not all go. Elladan needs to be brought to the palace, where he can be properly healed, not field dressed.” Faelmor nodded again. “I believe we should send a small force, with Elladan, to Thranduil’s halls. The rest can come with us to search for the missing.”

“Agreed,” said Aravadhor. He smiled encouragingly, and reached out to grip Elrohir’s shoulder. “See, Lord Elrohir? You _can_ do this.”

Elrohir nodded but did not smile. “We shall see.” He took another deep breath, then said, “Gather the men.” Faelmor and Aravadhor bowed and departed.

Five minutes later, all the Elves were gathered around the second campfire. It spat in the rain and smoked heavily, making Elrohir’s eyes water as he watched them come together. Only Maltor was absent, electing to remain by Elladan’s side to tend to him rather than conference with the rest. Elrohir stared at the gathering Elves, all of them silent and with questions in their eyes, and he wondered what they were thinking.

 _No time for that,_ he told himself, and stepped up onto a log so that he was standing above them all.

“As many of you—if not all of you—already know,” he said, reciting the speech he had practiced and planned while Faelmor was gathering them, “our party was attacked by Orcs while we were scouting the river for the source of the dam. My brother, Elladan, and I were both injured, and our father sent us to you to bring help. That was many hours ago. The battle is likely already won or lost—but regardless of which, we owe it to our friends, and our lords, to find them if we can.”

There were nods all around the gathered company, beneath hoods and soaked hair plastered to scalp and neck. Eyes, green and brown, blue and grey, silver and amber, all gleamed with heat.

“I ask you now, which of you are willing to accompany me to find Lord Elrond, Prince Legolas, Marshall Celebint, and Adelforod?”

Every hand went up.

“Those of you who do not go with me will bring my brother to Thranduil’s halls where he can receive the medical attention he likely requires.”

No hand went down.

“I cannot take you all,” Elrohir said. He had not been expecting this outcome. “I need at least five of you to escort my brother to King Thranduil’s halls.”

The hands went down, slowly at first, then all together. At last, however, one young elleth spoke.

“I will take Lord Elladan to King Thranduil.”

It was Colael, a young elleth from Rivendell. She was a century older than Elrohir, and was one of Glorfindel’s students. Though this was her first time to Eryn Galen, she had proven herself many times in the combat fields and as a hunter and tracker, as well as during journeys to Lothlorien.

Elrohir smiled, relieved. “And who else will join her?”

Five others raised their hands: two more Elves from Imladris, and three wearing the greens and browns of Huntsmen. Elrohir nodded. “You will have to retrace our steps and travel around the mountains. Send a hawk to King Thranduil, informing him of the delay, before you leave. You may leave whenever you see fit. I put Colael in command.”

Colael blushed, but bowed slightly at the waist. She had been the first to volunteer, and Elrohir had overheard Glorfindel speaking to his father about making her a squad captain. This would give her a taste of command, and tell her if it was something she wanted to pursue.

“We will leave first thing in the morning,” she promised.

“The rest of us will ride out within the hour,” Elrohir said, looking down at the rest of the Elves gathered. “So eat, if you have not done so already, and gather your things.”

The Elves dispersed to obey, and Elrohir hopped down off of the log. He grimaced as his feet landed on the ground, jostling his wound.

Faelmor appeared at his side. “Well done, Lord Elrohir,” he said, and gripped Elrohir’s shoulder. “Now come, you must eat as well. We do not want you falling from your horse from hunger.”

Elrohir grinned. “No,” he said, “no indeed,” and allowed Faelmor to steer him toward the venison still roasting over the fire.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_ The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

They rode out within the hour. 

The double line of horsemen marched with weapons bared and hissing torches held high, lighting the way before them. The horses’ hooves splattered muck up their legs and onto their bellies and chests, staining tack and saddle blankets, and splashing the boots of their riders. None of the Elves seemed to care, however—or care about the rain still driving down in harsh sheets that turned the night air misty and blank.

They rode in silence, each Elf lost to his or her own black thoughts: thoughts of death, of battle, of doom. They dreaded what they would find, even as they eagerly anticipated reaching their destination. Would they only find corpses? Or would they find their lords and friends still alive, in spite of the overwhelming odds against them?

Aravadhor and Faelmor rode behind Elrohir at the head of the column. Elrohir barely noticed them, however, so mired was he in his depression and fear. Elladan was safe—for the moment. But would he survive the night, let alone the journey to King Thranduil's halls? Were his father and best friend alive, or would they find their mangled and desecrated corpses in an Orc camp? And what of Adelforod and Celebint? Were they too still living, or were they dead?

A long hour passed, then another. Old torches were exchanged for fresh ones, and the column of riders pressed deeper and deeper still into the forest, Elrohir guiding the way. As the night dragged on, however, and the rain began to abate, Elrohir worried that he would not be able to find his way back to the site of the attack. He had been nearly delirious with pain during their flight, his only thought to get Elladan to safety. They had found the Huntsmen and the horses, somehow, and Faelmor could help direct them back to that meeting place—but what then? Could he retrace his and Elladan's harried steps?

“We are near where you found us, my lord,” Faelmor murmured shortly thereafter, pulling up alongside Elrohir. 

Elrohir nodded—then canted his head to one side in surprised consideration. He could hear the rush of water running nearby, as if a great, swollen stream was hurtling through a steep gorge. Frowning, he nudged his gelding, Astanor, forward. 

“Bring torches,” he called as he emerged from between the trees to the edge of dry river—only to find that the river was no longer dry and empty. He could see it rushing, pooling beyond its banks to soak the cracked ground beside the gorge, waves dark and frothing as they lashed one another in the flickering firelight. 

“Ai Elbereth,” Faelmor breathed, drawing to a halt to Elrohir's left. “What happened here?”

“I take it this was not what the river looked like earlier today when you were here?” Aravadhor asked, turning to look at Elrohir and Faelmor behind him. 

Elrohir shook his head. “This river was as dry as a drained bone,” he said. 

“It certainly is no longer,” said Aravadhor, and Elrohir shook his head again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Faelmor do the same. 

“What could have happened to undam it?” Faelmor wondered aloud. 

“I have no idea,” said Elrohir, who then explained to the others what he had seen earlier that day: the mountain crumbled into the river's ravine, the torn and broken trees, the crushed vegetation. “I do not know what could have had the force to unblock that dam.”

“Hm,” said Aravadhor, and then he turned his stallion. “We should move along, I think, my lord. We have no answers, and are likely to find none. It would be best to attend to our original goal and find the others.”

“Yes,” said Elrohir, and he turned Astanor as well. “Come. I believe it was this way.”

They slowed now as they wound their way through the dripping underbrush. The rain had slackened to only a fine most, but it clung to hair and face and sank damp fingers through skin and clothing to reach bone. Elrohir shivered and drew his cloak tighter around his body, trying to ignore the fine beads of sweat beginning to creep down the back of his neck. 

_ I'm fine, _ he told himself. _I will_ be _fine._ It did not matter that he had been shot with a poisoned arrow; now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time for strength and endurance. The draught that had lessened his pain was still strong in his system, muting the agony to a dull throb—but it still hurt when he moved too quickly. Gritting his teeth, Elrohir resolutely shoved the pain away and focused on the task at hand.

The journey was slow and painstaking for Elrohir, who examined each tree and bush they passed for recognition. At last, however, the smell of the dead began to seep into the air, and Elrohir knew they were close. 

They came upon the battlefield suddenly. One moment they were riding down a slight incline, wending their way between the trees, the next they were among corpses. They were swollen and beginning to bloat from the rain, purpling tongues hanging from between broken teeth and blood running in long, thin lines down riven flesh and piecemeal armor to stain grass and loam alike. The smell was sour and nauseating, and in spite of himself—and in spite of the fact that he had seen the dead before—Elrohir's already unhappy stomach rebelled. He leaned over the edge of his saddle and threw up, bile splashing to the ground. 

A hand grasped Elrohir’s shoulder, holding him steady. When he finished retching and looked over his shoulder, he saw Aravadhor looking at him grimly, worry in his pale grey eyes.

“Are you well, Lord Elrohir?” he asked.

“I am,” Elrohir replied, straightening and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath, then stiffly swung down from the saddle, patting Astanor on the neck as he moved away. “Come,” he said, picking his way through the sea of corpses, “we must see what we can find here.”

Behind him, more Elves dismounted and began sifting through the field of bodies. They nudged Orcs over with the toes of their boots, leaned down to pick through weapons and armor, and shone torchlight across blood and gore and broken bone, casting the figures into rapid and stark relief against the night’s shadows.

A cry from between the trees to Elrohir’s left caught his attention. He turned that way, and a moment later he rounded the large trunk of a pine to find two Elves kneeling beside a third. The third Elf was dead, the left side of his head bashed in, blood masking his face and brain littering the ground beneath him. He bore other wounds as well: a broken arm, two stab wounds to the stomach and chest, and numerous small cuts and bruises that had long since ceased to bleed.

It was Celebint.

Elrohir bowed his head and closed his eyes. He had only known the Elf for a few short days, but though he had butted heads with the proud Elf a time or two, he had respected the Marshall of Greenwood. It pained him to see the proud and noble Elf so badly butchered and lying untended and unheeded on the forest floor.

“What now, Lord Elrohir?”

Elrohir turned to see Aravadhor standing at his side, Faelmor beyond him. The two of them, it seemed, had taken his comment to heart: they were providing him counsel and support every step of the way, and were here to guide him and listen to his thoughts. 

The problem was, did he know what to do now?

They had to find his father and Prince Legolas, as well as Adelforod. That was task number one. But what of Celebint’s body? Did they leave it here and risk scavengers—including wayward Orcs that had survived the battle—coming back to desecrate the body? Or did they take the grisly bruden with them, until they could give Celebint a proper burial?

Another option presented itself to Elrohir.

“What if we leave a few Elves here to gather and burn the Orc corpses?” he suggested. “They can keep watch over Celebint’s body as well, while the rest of us continue searching.”

“Do you think it wise to split our forces again?” Faelmor asked.

“We cannot leave the Orcs here to fester and rot,” Elrohir pointed out. “It will bring only disease and darkness to this part of the forest.”

Faelmor bowed his head. “I fear there may already be darkness in the forest,” he said softly.

Elrohir frowned. “What does that mean?”

Faelmor blushed, and did not elaborate. Elrohir put aside the matter—for the moment. Now there were more pressing matters at stake than a single, if cryptic, statement.

“What do you think, Aravadhor?” he asked.

“While I do agree that it is risky to split our forces further, especially in these uncertain times, I believe you have a good plan, Lord Elrohir. We do not want to attract more darkness on our flank, and we very well may if we leave this party of Orc corpses unattended.”

“Very well,” said Elrohir. “It is agreed then.” He hesitated, then asked, “But how many should we leave behind?”

“Faelmor?” Aravadhor asked, turning to look at the Huntsman. “You know these woods best. How many would it be safe to leave here together to tend to the Orcs?”

Faelmor’s eyebrows creased, and he looked thoughtful. Finally he said, “Three or four should be enough.”

Elrohir nodded. “Four it is, then. That will leave us with 25 Elves. That will be plenty, should we run into any trouble.” He hoped, at least.

They rounded up the Elves, Elrohir gave his instructions and selected the four to remain behind—two Greenwood Elves and two Rivendell Elves—and then the rest of them mounted up once again and began the slow trek deeper still into the forest. They followed the track beaten into the underbrush and gouged into the trees that the Orcs had left in their passing—though whether on their way to or from the battle, Elrohir was not entirely certain.

They had ridden for a slow quarter of an hour when a cry from their right flank brought Elrohir and Astanor to a quick halt. Elrohir dismounted, hand on the hilt of his sword, and he quickly threaded his way through the arrow formation of horses toward where the sound had come from, Faelmor and Aravadhor behind him.

An Eryn Galen Elf met them a few paces away from some broken underbrush. His blue eyes were wide and his face was pale, and he looked troubled.

“We found Adelforod, the scout,” he announced. 

A sick feeling of trepidation wormed its way into Elrohir’s stomach, but he pushed past the Greenwood Elf to get a look at the scout himself.

He had been butchered.

He lay in a pile of moss and fallen, dead leaves trapped in the bowl of a tree’s tangled roots—or, rather, what remained of him. His head was severed and lying a few paces away from the rest of his corpse, which was mangled and hacked nearly to pieces. There was as much bone as flesh, and more blood than bone, painting him scarlet and crimson. His eyes were open and unseeing, flies already gathered around the spilled blood and crawling across his waxen skin.

“What happened?” Elrohir wondered aloud. “These do not look like wounds received in a battle. After a battle, perhaps—but he was alive when he was slain, elsewise he would not have bled so profusely. So what happened? Was he captured and killed? Was he defeated and murdered? But how did he get so far from the initial site of the battle?”

Faelmor shook his head, looking ill. “He was a friend,” he whispered, and turned quickly away.

Elrohir turned away as well, and tentatively reached out to place a comforting hand on Faelmor’s shoulder. Faelmor half-turned his head to look at Elrohir from the corner of his eye, and he offered a small, grateful smile. They spoke no words, however; none were needed.

“We have no answers,” Aravadhor said with a shake of his head. “Only more questions.”

“Come,” Elrohir said. “Let us gather up his remains and send someone back to the others with them. The rest of us will push on.”

The path of destruction left by the Orcs wound away from the now-running river and deeper into the mountain’s pine forest. The ground sloped beneath their horses’ hooves, and pine needles rolled down the slight incline, gathering dirt and grit as they went until small cascades of soil and pebbles rained down with every step.

At last the smell of the dead crept back onto the avenues of the air, and Elrohir felt in his bones and in his blood that they were nearing their destination.

They crested a small ridge and found themselves looking down into a hollow embedded in the side of the mountain. Trees lined the rim, but none stood within the hollow’s bowl; only pine needles and fallen deciduous leaves littered the rich loam of the earth, forming a cushion and a blanket. Half of the trees lay splintered and broken, a few of them smoldering slightly, and even after the heavy rainfall two small fires burned around the hollow’s edge. All around lay the dead.

Orcs lay with bodies mangled and twisted, black blood dried on their faces from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. A few of them were blackened and burned, as if they had been burned—or struck by lightning. More of them lay, sightless and soundless, as if they were merely sleeping—as if their hearts had simply stopped beating, and their lungs had stopped drawing in breath.

It was an eerie and disconcerting sight to behold. Something strange and fey, the likes of which Middle-earth had rarely seen, had happened here, and it made Elrohir’s blood sing uncomfortably—sing a song he longed to give voice to, sing a song that begged to be brought to life, sing a song that terrified him. It echoed in his mind and in his heart, an afterimage of whatever had been wrought here.

He bit his tongue and swallowed back the notes, breathing them in and binding them to his lungs, to his blood, to his bones. He would remember the echoes of it for an eternity, but he would never give voice to it—not unless there was no other choice to be had. The song that begged to be sung was dangerous; that much Elrohir knew on instinct alone.

“What happened here?” Faelmor asked, looking around with wide eyes. He was still ahorse, sitting and surveying the scene from the height of his mare. Behind him, Elrohir heard mutterings and whisperings of that same question echoed once, twice, a dozen and a half times. He turned, and looked back at the Elves arrayed behind him, seeing their concern, their confusion, their alarm.

Elrohir opened his mouth to speak—but no answer came out. The truth was, he did not know what had happened here. Only that what had happened was dangerous and wrought of a power he did not know or understand, even if it sang to his blood as if he had been born of it.

He dismounted slowly, ground-tying Astanor, and then made his careful way down the sloping side of the hollow to the center of it. The air grew chilled as he descended, until it was brittle and difficult to breathe. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders, something black and malicious climbing onto his brow and back and sinking there, as if trying to hold him to the ground. The air itself seemed to breathe with the memory of half-forgotten evil. Elrohir shuddered.

Something terrible had been here—of that, Elrohir was certain. But what?

He stood at the center of the hollow for a long moment, looking up at the blasted and ruined lip above him, then turned in a slow circle surveying the rest of the hollow’s walls, then floor. He pushed aside the brittleness of the air, the malice, the evil blanketing him. He had to search for what he came to find.

Something caught his eye, and Elrohir took three steps forward and knelt. He pulled up a severed rope. It was thick and crudely made, but sturdy, and seemed to have been cut through cleanly with a sharp knife.

The question was: who had been bound? Who had done the binding? And who had done the cutting?

“Spread out,” Elrohir called to the Elves watching him from among the trees up above. “See what you can find.”

They obeyed, albeit warily, and Elrohir returned his attention to the hollow floor. Though any tracks that may have been imprinted into the mud had long since been washed away by the rain, he hoped he could still find _something_ that would give him a clue as to what had happened here.

He circled the hollow at a crouch, eyeing the disturbed leaf-litter and wondering what could have moved it; was it footsteps, either Orc or Elf? Or was it merely the driving force of the rain? A small cascade of loose dirt and pebbles and leaves had collected at the bottom of the slope on the end nearest where the cut rope had been—had it been caused by someone climbing out, or had a rock merely tumbled from the lip of the hollow and rolled down the sharp incline?

Other Elves had climbed down into the hollow by then, and now they searched the entire length and breadth of it with close attention. Elrohir straightened, rubbing his temples, and watched them move back and forth across the floor in a net formation, covering every inch of the leaf-strewn ground.

After a moment, an Elf named Menacharn from Imladris straightened and turned, looking for Elrohir. When his eyes fell on the young Elf lord, Menacharn waved him over. Elrohir started forward, feeling numb and heavy-footed, wending his way between the Elves still searching.

“What have you found?” he asked Menacharn as he drew near.

“You should see this,” Menacharn said, and stepped away.

A knife had been embedded in the loose soil of the earth up to its hilt. A fragment of dark cloth was torn and tangled around it, heavy and rich and finely made. Elrohir knelt and fingered it, feeling the thickness of the material, the weight of it, and then he pulled the knife free of the ground. 

It was, unmistakably, his father’s. Elrohir himself had gifted him the knife nearly two hundred begettings ago. “In case you are ever without Hadhafang,” he had said when his father opened the box to see the beautifully crafted weapon within. “I made it myself, with the help of Menelhathol.” Menelhathol was Imladris’s chief smith, an ancient Doriathrin Sindarin Elf from the time before the Sun and Moon, who had sworn himself to Luthien’s grandson. “I hope you like it,” Elrohir had added, somewhat uncomfortably, when his father made no move to take the knife from the box.

His father had looked up at him then, a strange look in his eyes. “Thank you, Elrohir,” he had said, and placing the box down on the table he had gathered Elrohir into a tight hug. “I believe this knife very well may save my life,” he had said softly into Elrohir’s ear, before pulling away.

Elrohir wondered now if this was what his father had meant. Had the knife saved his life here and now, today?

Shaking his head, Elrohir tugged the strip of cloth free of the knife blade and then tucked the knife into his belt. He would find a sheath for it later. For now, he wanted it close, a reminder that his father had been alive at this hollow, at least for a little while.

They found nothing else after another quarter hour of searching—only more Orcs, more downed trees, more blackened spots on the ground as if where fires had burned or lightning had struck. Elrohir rested a hand on the knife hilt and, turning to Aravadhor and Faelmor, who had drawn near, asked, “What now?”

“Now we search,” said Aravadhor calmly. “We have seen all we can see here, I believe, and all of the tracks have been washed away—so now we hunt through tree and brush for any sign of a body or any footprint that may have survived the rain.”

“That could take weeks,” Elrohir pointed out.

“So be it,” said Aravadhor. “Unless you would rather give up hope?”

Elrohir shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I will not give up hope.”

“Very good then,” said Aravadhor. “Now let us stop for the night—we need to gather our strength, and rest the horses—and then we can continue on in the morning.”

Elrohir nodded. “Very well—but away from this hollow. Something evil transpired here, as well as something dangerous, and I do not wish to subject our people to that for any longer than I must.”

“Agreed,” said Faelmor, who had remained silent until this point.

“Mount up,” Elrohir called. “We find a good campsite, and settle in for the night. Then tomorrow the real works begins.”


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

Legolas awoke slowly, coming back to consciousness like water dripping slowly from a spout: piece by piece, bit by bit, second by individual second.

First he became aware of the wet. It soaked him, drenched him, clung to him until he gasped against it, and against the water filling his nose and mouth. He coughed, spluttered, then opened his eyes and sat up, swiping his right hand across his face, sluicing away the rainwater.

He was sitting on the riverbank, his booted toes lapped by the water’s waves. Trees encroached close, their leafy boughs dripping water onto his head and face, their roots bulging the sodden ground beneath him. The bank was at a slight incline, and was mostly made of mud, leaving Legolas not only wet but also filthy from hair to breeches.

Next he became aware of the cold. It leeched into him, seeping away the warmth of his flesh and leaving in its wake shiver and fine trembling.

Last he became aware of the pain. He hurt everywhere--a deep, throbbing, aching pulse that made him dizzy and burned through his bones. He wanted to curl into his side and stay there, latched in the fetal position, until it abated and he could breathe normally once more.

Instead, he staggered to his feet. He stumbled and fell, legs numb with cold and pain betraying him. He caught himself with his hands and knees, palms and fingers sinking deep into the mud of the river bank, his left arm buckling from the pain of taking his weight, then pushed himself upright once more, face burning with embarrassment though there had been no one present to bear witness to his clumsiness.

This time, when he straightened, his legs held.

 _Now what?_ he wondered. He had no idea where he was, with no weapons, and with no way to know what had happened to the others. Did he search for them? Did he try to find his way back to his father’s halls? Did he sit and wait for help to come to him?

But no one had any idea where he was, just as _he_ had no idea where he was, and there was no trail for them to follow. The water would have washed away any trace of him, until it spat him back out onto the bank. And on that subject, just how far had he been taken downriver? He no longer seemed to be in the mountains, but that meant little; there was a great deal of forest that the river passed through that was not mountainous.

And where was Lord Elrond? Had he been swept away by the river as well? Surely he had; he had not been that much farther fallen than Legolas had been. Where, then, was he? Could Legolas find him?

Not knowing what else to do, and hoping to find _some_ answers to a _few_ of his questions, Legolas struck out down the river, following the flowing water along its right-hand bank. His body protested his every movement, shrieking and squawking with pain as he breathed, as he walked, as he shivered. Half a dozen paces along Legolas realized he was limping slightly, his right knee throbbing mercilessly with every step. His head pounded above his right ear, his shoulder burned, and the multitude of cuts and bruises littering his body ached.

He pushed onwards. He would at least find someplace to shelter in, he decided. Then he could think more clearly about what he was going to do next.

Legolas did not know how long he had been walking when something in the trees caught his eye. He clambered up the slight incline toward the line of trees and the glint of dim light on metal, hugging himself with his good arm. When he reached the tree in question he stopped, startled and a little dumbfounded, not entirely sure what to make of the sight before him.

It was Hadhafang, Lord Elrond’s sword, embedded nearly hilt-deep in the tree. Somehow it must have been carried by the tidal surge of water, Legolas reasoned, and then flung from the river and into the tree. How, he could only guess.

Wrapping his good hand around the hilt, Legolas heaved. For a long second the sword did not budge--then, with a groan of metal against wood, the tree gave way and released the blade. Legolas tumbled down, landing hard on his back, the breath rushing from his lungs in a savage gust. Hadhafang was free, however--free, and in Legolas’s hand.

Clambering once more to his feet, Legolas trudged on his way down the river, head bowed and sword-tip nearly dragging in the mud. He was exhausted and hurting, and it was all he could do to force one foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other.

The walk became monotonous, a slowly dying hell that Legolas forced himself to pass through one step at a time. Each breath was laborious, each footfall agony. He shivered nearly-constantly, and his wounds began to bleed in fitful bursts and gasps as he pushed his body beyond its capabilities. He still was not safe, however; he still had not found a place where he could sit and rest, where his back would be protected and his head dry from the strengthening rain.

Darkness, already clinging to the edges of the world, fell. Legolas staggered onward with only one goal in mind: find somewhere safe. That he was too exhausted to look for such a safe haven was beyond his recognition--so instead he ploughed on, and on, and on, mud sucking at his feet, Hadhafang’s tip dipping lower and lower to the ground.

Something caught Legolas’s stumbling toe and he fell, sprawling, Hadhafang tumbling from his slack grip. Breathing heavily, Legolas rolled over and off of the object over which he had tripped. Blinking rainwater out of his eyes, and pushing his filthy hair off of his forehead, Legolas fumbled in the dark for Hadhafang’s hilt. His fingers closed around cold metal, then around cool wood, and he lifted the sword.

“Hello?” he called.

No answer.

 _Probably just a stone,_ Legolas thought, exhausted, and then put his hand down to feel for it. His fingers brushed cloth, then skin, and Legolas jumped so hard he nearly threw himself off-balance.

“Hello?” he said again, and again there was no response. Whoever it was was either unconscious, or was too afraid to speak.

There was no moon and no stars, leaving Legolas in almost complete darkness. He felt along the unknown person’s chest, then neck, then jaw, feeling cool, smooth skin. Then the face, and the ears: pointed. The brow was arched, the cheekbones high, the lips full. Then Legolas’s fingers touched hair, and smooth, cold metal: a circlet.

Legolas knew then, in that instant, who he had found: Lord Elrond.

“Thank Eru,” he breathed, and passed out.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_ The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

When Legolas awoke again, it was still dark. He groaned and rolled over onto his side, reaching out to fumble against Lord Elrond’s chest. His jerkin was soaked through and crusted with ice; the temperature seemed to have dropped—or Lord Elrond himself was colder than he should have been. Frowning, Legolas felt his own hair, and though it was damp and chilled, there was no ice.

Sitting up carefully and with another groan, Legolas felt along Lord Elrond’s body, feeling the ice gathered in the crevices of his clothes, among the strands of his hair, on his skin. Feeling it made Legolas, already chilled to the bone, shiver—and wonder. What could have caused this? Lord Elrond should be _warmer_ than the surrounding air, not colder.

_ I have to get a fire going, _ Legolas thought. _I have to get him warm—get this ice melted off of him._

Scooping handfuls of leaves into a pile, Legolas reached into his belt purse—blessedly still attached to his belt, and still fastened—and pulled out flint. Fumbling in the darkness, Legolas lifted Hadhafang, then struck a spark using the metal blade against his flint. Sparks flew, and a few settled on the damp leaves—sizzled, then failed. Cursing to himself, Legolas tried again—and again, and again. Each time the sparks died out before they could catch alight.

Digging beneath the wet leaf litter for something drier, Legolas pulled up a fistful of old pine needles. They were mostly dry, though not completely; he hoped they would work. Once more he struck the flint against the blade. Sparks fell among the needles—and caught. Legolas quickly grabbed one leaf and fed it to the rapidly diminishing fire, small and weak as it rushed through the needles, then a second. The leaves curled and crumbled, gone almost before he had lit them—but still he fed the fire leaf after leaf, until he had a tiny blaze going. It would fail within moments, unless he was to get something sturdier on it—but he had a flame going.

Now that he had some light, it was easier for Legolas to stand and hurry his hobbling way around the nearby trees, searching for bark and green branches low to the ground. It was still difficult to see—the fire was measly and small and failing rapidly, casting barely enough light to throw off shadows—but it was enough. 

Legolas returned just as the fire began to flicker out, bark in one hand and a few small branches in his injured other. He fed these to the flames as well. Holding his breath, Legolas waited for them to catch light—and they did. He breathed a sigh of relief, added another scoop of leaves onto the brightening blaze, and then rose unsteadily again to collect more tinder.

Half an hour later, Legolas had a respectable fire going. He had cleared away the leaf-litter in a circle around the flames, leaving only bare earth as a bulwark against the fire spreading, and had collected a small pile of dead wood to use for fuel. Lord Elrond lay a mere pace away from the blaze, the ice glistening in the firelight—but not melting.

_ What do I do now? _ Legolas wondered. His thoughts were sluggish and slow, not wanting to tumble in any one direction; rather, they spiraled nearly out of control in every which way, tumbling here and there without rhyme or reason, drifting to one topic then darting to another, finding one solution before forgetting it in lieu of another.

_ I have to get him out of his wet clothes, _ Legolas thought at last as his mind, numb and exhausted and nearly overwhelmed by pain, finally defaulted into instinct and long-held training. _Wet clothes leech warmth away from the body, and take longer to dry._

It took nearly a quarter of an exhausting hour. Lord Elrond was significantly larger than Legolas, both taller and broader in shoulder and hip, and it took nearly all of Legolas’s failing strength to hoist the Half-Elf up enough to draw off his jerkin, tunic, undershirt, and breeches. His underclothes Legolas left on, though his boots and socks Legola removed and added to the pile of clothes laid out by the fire. 

The wounds that were revealed by his disappearing clothes were disturbing. Cuts and gashes littered his skin, which was purple and blue and black from bruising. More worrying, however, was the broken arm, the crooked roll to his right hip, and a long, thin stab wound halfway down his side. The blade that had caused it had sheared off against the bone, but when Legolas felt it, he thought he could feel a sliver of metal embedded between two ribs.

Legolas considered trying to dig out the piece of metal—but he had no tools with which to do so, and his only experience with medicine was that training given to every young Huntsman. He knew how to bandage and stitch a wound, how to clean it, and how to keep it from getting infected—but anything more complicated than that he had always been instructed to leave to the healers.

_ If only I was the one so badly injured, _ Legolas thought. _If only our positions were reversed…_

At last, the ice began to melt—from the clothes, if not from Lord Elrond’s skin.

“My lord?” Legolas asked, when at last his task was complete and the ice was still not melting. He knelt by Lord Elrond’s side, one hand on the Elf lord’s cold shoulder. He shook it gently with his good hand, his injured arm hanging by his side. “My lord, please—wake up. I need you to tell me what is wrong so I might fix it.”

Lord Elrond did not stir.

“My lord,” Legolas begged, “please… I need you to tell me what to do.”

Nothing happened.

Legolas lowered his head to Lord Elrond’s shoulder, defeated. What did he do now? Was there some way for him to wake the Elf lord? Was there some way for him to determine what was keeping him unconscious—what was causing the ice to form along his brow and over his skin?

A memory came to him: Elladan and Elrohir speaking of how their father had called an Elf back from the brink of death by touching the Elf maiden’s fëa with his own, using that as a bridge to bring her back to her own body from the gates of Mandos’s halls.

Lord Elrond was a gifted healer, though—and more than that, part Maia. Was Legolas capable of doing the same thing, though he was neither Maia nor healer?

He could only try.

Closing his eyes, Legolas breathed in, out, then in again, calming his heart and pulse. They eased into a steady, rhythmic beat, pounding loud in Legolas’s ears in time with each inhale, each exhale. 

_ What now? _ he wondered. _How do I go about calling for his fëa?_

_ Lord Elrond? _ Legolas called silently, feeling foolish. _Lord Elrond, can you hear me?_

No answer came.

Breathing in and out again, Legolas calmed his heart further still, until it was beating only once every few seconds. Then he listened—listened, listened, listened. He listened for Lord Elrond’s breath, shallow and rushed between his ice-rimmed lips; he listened for Lord Elrond’s heartbeat, shuddering in his ribs; he listened for Lord Elrond’s fëa, crackling and alive beneath his skin and in his blood.

There came to Legolas a faint whispering, as of a thin, snaking voice murmuring insidious words into his ear. They were in a language that Legolas did not know and could not understand—a language that made his skin crawl and his bones shiver.

Then, very suddenly, the voice changed, growing louder and more distinct—and the words too changed, morphing into the flowing Sindarin of Legolas’s native tongue.

_ You will die, _ the voice said, hissing each vowel, spitting each consonant. _I will drag you down unto the depths of black despair, and you will cede your fëa to me. This is inescapable; this battle you fight is unwinnable. You will be mine, mine, mine…_

Legolas retched, only just turning his head to keep from throwing up on Lord Elrond. Bile splattered to the ground, the taste bitter in his mouth. Something in that voice had been so full of malice, so full of hatred, so full of disease and despair and desire—so full of pure, unadulterated _evil_ —that Legolas’s entire being shuddered and revolted.

“Lord Elrond,” Legolas said aloud, then again, silently, _Lord Elrond. Lord Elrond, can you hear me?_

The voice reappeared. This time, however, it was looking at _him._

_ And who are you? _ it asked. Then it sneered. _Little Greenleaf—little prince. As if you can take from me my captive._

_ You cannot have him, _ Legolas said on a whim, and he clutched Lord Elrond’s shoulder with bruising fingers.

_ Oh, but little Greenleaf, _ the voice whispered, oily and snake-like and so, so, so vindictive and proud, _I already do._

Lord Elrond shivered—then convulsed. His back arched, his knees bent, and his bare toes dug into the sodden ground. Mud clung to his hair as he shoved his head into the earth, smeared across his hands and wrists as he clutched at it with trembling fingers. He opened his mouth—and for a second no sound came out.

Then he screamed.

“My lord!” Legolas exclaimed, rising to his knees and bending low over Lord Elrond. He gripped Lord Elrond’s hand and kept his broken arm still, even as he convulsed again, thrashing and flailing against Legolas’s hold. “My lord,” Legolas pleaded. “Fight. Fight this voice—this _thing_ , whatever it is.”

Lord Elrond continued to scream.

His eyes fluttered, and hope surged in Legolas’s breast. 

They opened—and for a second, Legolas thought that all would be well. Then Lord Elrond’s eyes fastened on him, and Legolas saw no recognition, no understanding—saw nothing but wild, painful fear.

Then Lord Elrond’s eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped back to the ground, still and silent once more.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

_ The sixteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

Legolas slept in fitful bursts and starts. Every so often he would awaken fully, rise, and give the burning fire more fuel, sending the flames rocking high into the night sky, throwing smoke and sparks toward the boughs of the trees above. Then he would curl up by Lord Elrond’s side once more, holding him close in an attempt to stave off the cold and the ice still prickling at the Elf lord’s skin, and he would slip into Reverie once again.

Twice Lord Elrond stirred, waking Legolas in an instant. He cried out both times, pained and pitiful mewls of sound that were weaker each time, and his eyelids would flicker for just an instant. Then he would fall still once more, and ice would creep thicker over his bare skin.

“What do I do?” Legolas asked aloud the second time it happened. He was seated by Lord Elrond’s side, his unhurt hand clutched in Legolas’s, Legolas’s pulse threading through his throat. “Please, my lord—what is wrong? What is happening to you? Tell me what I must do to fix this.”

As always, Lord Elrond did not answer. He only shivered, and the crackle of ice forming sang in counterpoint to the snap of the fire.

At last, as dawn came to the forest in streaks of grey against the black, Legolas shifted and, with a pained groan of his own, lifted Lord Elrond’s body so that he was cradled in Legolas’s arms. He lay propped up against the Prince of Eryn Galen, Legolas’s arms wrapped around his stomach and chest, Legolas’s chin resting against the crown of his head. 

Legolas still ached in and out, in bones and blood and flesh, in spite of whatever healing he had been given by the Orcs. His wounds throbbed beneath the flaking paste the Orcs had smeared over them, and his skin was littered liberally with bruises and cuts from his time unconscious in the river.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground, settling Lord Elrond more comfortably against his chest.

“Please,” Legolas whispered, begged, prayed to the Valar, to Eru, to anyone who was listening. “Help us. Something is wrong, though I know not what, and I do not know how to fix it or help him. So please. _Please._ Help us.”

For a long, interminable moment there was only silence. 

Then, very suddenly, the wind picked up. It blew gently at first, a soft whispering breeze, then with more force—until it tore the trees into a frenzy, driving them nearly double to the ground. Legolas hunkered down, sheltering Lord Elrond from the gale, ducking his head between his arms to protect them both from the spinning needles and branches crashing around them. One branch landed a few feet from Legolas's ankle, another a few inches from his right elbow. He shrank back, and bent tighter over Lord Elrond’s inert form.

Abruptly, the wind died—and Lord Elrond opened his eyes. 

“My lord Elrond,” Legolas gasped, straightening. “You're awake.”

Lord Elrond groaned, then sat up slowly. Ice flaked from his skin, cracking and falling away with every movement. He gasped with pain, one hand going to the stab wound in his side, then his hip, but his eyes were clear when he looked over his shoulder at Legolas.

“Legolas,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been screaming for hours. 

“I am here, my lord,” said Legolas, smiling in relief and joy. “What can I do for you?”

Lord Elrond groaned again, doubling over and putting his head in his unhurt hand. 

“Lord Elrond?”

“The first thing you can do is stop calling me “lord”,” he said from between his fingers. “Just Elrond will do.”

“But my lord,” Legolas protested, “it wouldn't be proper—”

“You and I are long past the necessity of propriety, I think,” said Lord Elrond. He grinned wryly, the gesture just barely visible around his arm. “You have, after all, seen me in my underclothes.”

Legolas blushed. “I was trying to warm you,” be explained hurriedly.

“Peace, Legolas,” Lord Elrond said. He sounded tired. “That was not a reprimand, or even a question. I was merely meaning you and I are in dire straights together, and we are past the requirements that propriety demand.”

Legolas nodded slowly. “I suppose,” he hedged. 

“So please,” Lord Elrond said, “call me simply Elrond.”

Legolas did not want to argue with him—not when he had been unconscious barely a moment before. So instead of fighting him anew, Legolas conceded—for the moment. “Yes my lord—I mean, Elrond.”

Elrond smiled. “Thank you, Legolas.” He laid down slowly, turning white at the movement, and stretched out on the ground. Legolas quickly shifted so that he was kneeling beside the Peredhel.

“What can I do for you?” Legolas asked again. “How can I help you?”

Elrond, who had closed his eyes, opened them again. He looked at Legolas very seriously. 

“You are going to hate what I am about to say,” he told the prince grimly, “but it must be said.”

Legolas nodded for him to continue.

“You must leave me.”

“What?” Legolas exclaimed. “No! Never.”

“Legolas,” said Elrond, and he sounded even more tired than he had a moment before. “My hip is broken. I cannot walk, let alone run. And run you must. If they are not already, the Orcs will be closing in soon. They are hunting you, Legolas, and they will not cease until they find you, or until you are safe in your father's halls.”

“They hunt you too,” Legolas protested. 

Elrond shook his head, but he did not deny it. “There is no hope for me,” he said softly after a long moment. “Do not damn yourself in a futile attempt to protect or save me.”

“And what would your wife say—or worse, _do_ —to me if I left you here to die?” Legolas asked. “Lady Celebrían would likely murder me on the spot if she ever found out I had even entertained the notion, let alone gone through with it.”

“She would understand that a sacrifice had to be made,” Elrond replied calmly. “She would know I had told you to leave me, and she would know it was not your fault.”

“No,” said Legolas flatly. “No, I am not leaving you here to die—or to be captured. You can say what you will, but I will _not_ abandon you.”

“Even if that means your own torment or death?”

“Even if it means my own torment or death.”

“You do not know of what you speak,” Elrond said softly. “I overheard the Orcs speaking. They were instructed to bring you specifically to their Master, whoever that may be, to be broken to his will.” Something very dark and very terrible sat heavy in Elrond’s eyes as he spoke, and Legolas wondered what had put it there.

Pushing aside his curiosity, Legolas shook his head. “No,” he said stoutly. “No, I am not leaving you. You are in no condition to make me, and I absolutely refuse.” He crossed his arms, feeling very much like a petulant child but not caring.

Elrond sighed. “Very well,” he relented. He looked at Legolas with one eyebow half-cocked. “I am not going to change your mind, am I?” he asked. “No matter what I say?”

“No,” Legolas said firmly.

“Then douse this fire and help me dress. We do not want to squander what little head start we have.”

Legolas obeyed, rising and stamping out the fire, then gathered Elrond's clothes and brought them to him. Elrond was silent as Legolas helped him dress, for which Legolas was thankful. He was not sure what he would have said had Elrond insisted he could fasten the laces on his breeches one-handed. As it was, Legolas found the whole process extremely uncomfortable and nerve-wracking, and he longed for the moment it was over.

Once Elrond was dressed and the fire was completely out, Legolas knelt by Elrond's side and looped his unbroken arm over his shoulders. Then, staggering to rise, he helped Elrond to his feet. Pain washed through him, from the aches and pains and throbbing all throughout his body, but Legolas resolutely shoved that away; Elrond was hurt far worse than he was, and he was not complaining—was moving in spite of his agony. Legolas could do so as well.

Elrond hopped, then hobbled, then gained his balance. He grunted, but made no other sound of pain or protest, and after a few teetering seconds he nodded at Legolas. “I am well,” he said, “and ready.”

They set off down the bank of the river, keeping close to the swollen edge of the water. Every now and again Elrond's feet would dip into the waves, and Legolas's breeches would be splashed with water. He didn't mind. In fact, he purposefully guided them into the water’s edge every so often, in an attempt to throw off any followers. 

Elrond hopped and hobbled along, silent and pale. He did not speak or cry out, even when his injured leg was jostled. He merely moved on, and on, and on, single-minded and purposeful. 

Legolas found his respect for the Elf lord growing. He was not sure if he himself could move so steadily and quickly—though they were by no means moving swiftly—with a broken hip. He did not complain, and did not ask to stop, even when Legolas could see sweat breaking out on his face. 

“Perhaps we should rest,” Legolas suggested half an hour later. 

“No time,” Elrond said tersely, and hopped on. 

“You need to rest, my lord,” Legolas protested, reverting back to propriety in his attempt to convince Elrond of his need. 

Elrond simply shook his head. “No,” he said again, sterner this time. “We are being hunted, and I am already slowing you down. I cannot slow you any more.”

Legolas shook his head. He knew how stubborn his friends Elladan and Elrohir were; he had not realized they got that stubbornness from their father. 

“Then for my sake,” Legolas pleaded, “let us stop. My arm is beginning to tire and weaken, and it needs a respite.”

Elrond looked surprised, then ashamed. “I am sorry, Legolas,” he said, sounding heartfelt. “I had forgotten you too were badly injured…” He trailed off. 

“You have had a great deal on your mind,” said Legolas. “It is understandable.”

“But not forgiveable,” said Elrond. “Even so, I do ask your forgiveness.”

“And you have it,” said Legolas. 

Elrond smiled. It was a nice smile, Legolas decided, soft and warm and full of the promise of safety—like a warm fire and a soft chair beside it, deep within his father's halls. “Thank you,” Elrond said, and Legolas could tell he meant it. His respect for the Elf lord grew even more.

They halted, Legolas helping Elrond to sit, his injured leg stretched out before him. Then Legolas sat beside the Elf lord, grimacing and poking at the wound in his left shoulder. It had begun to bleed, tiny droplets and trickles of scarlet shoving their way through the thick Orc paste. 

“Let me look at that,” Elrond bade. 

“But,” Legolas began to protest, only to fall silent under Elrond's withering stare. He deflated. “Very well.”

Shrugging out of his jerkin and pulling his tunic down over his shoulder, Legolas showed Elrond the stab wound. Elrond was silent as he prodded the injury with his good hand, deftly feeling what damage had been done to muscle, ligament, and bone. He nodded when he was done, and proclaimed, “It could have been worse. The blade went cleanly through, and there were no bones broken.”

Legolas had been fairly certain of that, but it was good to hear a healer say the same. 

“I wish I could clean it of this Orc concoction, sterilize, and stitch it,” Elrond went on, “but unfortunately neither you nor I have any supplies with which to do so.”

Legolas nodded. “Unfortunately,” he echoed. 

“Now let me see your chest,” Elrond ordered, and the process was repeated. After a long moment of silent examination, Elrond sighed and said, “This needs stitches badly, even with the paste. Since that is impossible at the moment, move as little as you can and try to avoid bending or twisting.”

“Very well,” said Legolas. “Thank you.” 

They lapsed into companionable silence, both lost to their own thoughts as they looked down at the river flowing a few paces down the slope of the bank. Legolas wondered what it was Elrond was thinking of, then wondered what it was _he_ was thinking of. The long and arduous journey ahead, for certain; the pain in his shoulder, chest, and arm for another. His wounds stung and burned, though the pain had mostly sunk into background noise. 

A few minutes after they had sat down, Legolas thought he heard a noise on the wind. He stilled and listened intently, ears pricked and attention fixed behind them. 

There it was again: a faint, far-distant howling. 

Wolves. 

Legolas started up, then looked down at Elrond still seated on the ground. The Elf lord stared up at him, a question in his eyes. 

“What is it, young prince?” he asked.

“Do you not hear that?” Legolas asked. 

Elrond cocked his head to one side, considering. Then his already pale face paled further. 

“Please, young Greenleaf,” he said—no, begged. “Leave me here. Save yourself. You cannot save both of us—it would be better for you to survive than for both of us to fall.”

Legolas had heard of the nobility of Elrond of Rivendell, but just as he had never seen Elrond's prowess at battle until the last day, he had not known the depth to which his nobility ran. He was willing to sacrifice himself to torment and death for Legolas's sake—just as he had been the day before. 

What was Legolas willing to risk for him?

“No,” Legolas said firmly. “Either we both make it, or neither of us do.”

“You cannot carry me,” said Elrond, “and I will not go with you willingly.”

Legolas sat. “Then I will sit here until the wolves come.”

“You would not,” said Elrond. 

Legolas set his jaw. “Watch me,” he said. 

They stared at one another for a terribly long moment, waiting for the other to break. Legolas was just beginning to believe that Elrond would actually force him to follow through with his threat—when the Elf lord relented.

“Very well,” he said. “Then let us go now, and with all haste.”

They rose and continued on their way, listening intently to the howls as they drew nearer and nearer still. At last they heard a rustling in the bushes, and heavy footfalls coming up from behind them. 

Legolas dropped Elrond to the ground, grabbed Hadhafang from his belt, and whirled. He would not go down without a fight—of that much, at least, he was certain. 

A long, thin, black nose appeared between the underbrush, followed by a long muzzle and pricked, black ears. The beast whickered at the sight of them—and Legolas relaxed his fighting stance. 

It was not a wolf; it was a horse—a large, black mare that was familiar, if not well-known. 

“Avasath,” Elrond cried, and Legolas turned in time to see the Elf lord drag himself to his feet. He stretched out a hand, and the mare trotted forward to rest her soft nose in his palm, whuffling softly. 

“Thank Eru,” Legolas breathed in relief—and not only because the mare was no wolf. They now had a way to race against the wolves; even if they would not be able to outstrip them, on Avasath would be able to hold their own. “Quickly, Lord Elrond,” said Legolas, accidentally once again reverting to propriety, “let us get you mounted.”

Elrond gave Avasath a command, and the mare knelt down onto her forelegs. Hopping and hobbling, Elrond made his way to her side, then sat and swung his unhurt leg over her whithers. Legolas expected him to then give the command for her to rise—but he did not.

“I cannot ride alone,” Elrond said. “I am sorry, Legolas, but you will have to ride with me. I cannot grip her sides with my hip broken as it is.”

Legolas nodded, then mounted the mare. Her sides were sweat-flecked and damp, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had been running a long way. Legolas supposed she likely had been. 

Once he was seated, Elrond gave the command for Avasath to rise. She obeyed, and Legolas gripped Elrond's waist as the Elf lord swayed. Avasath stepped forward, first at a walk, then at a trot, then at a canter, as the two Elves clung tightly to her back. 

Behind them, the wolves howled. Ahead of them, the darkness between the forest trees loomed. 

Now, however, they at least had hope. 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_ The sixteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

They rode hard and long, well into the night. Avasath ran with sides heaving and hooves thundering, her Aman-bred heart alone keeping her upright and moving forward at such a pace for such a length of time. At last, however, Elrond declared that they needed to halt. 

They stopped in a small glade ringed with trees and mushrooms. The river burbled happily a dozen paces to their left, swift and ragged and blue, even in the dark. Above them the night swirled with clouds, dark and ominous. The small fire they built was smokeless and dim, barely giving off enough heat for them to warm their hands at. 

“Sleep,” Elrond bad Legolas. “I will take first watch.”

“But you are injured,” Legolas protested. 

“And you are not?” Elrond pointed out with one raised eyebrow. 

“You are injured worse than I,” Legolas said stubbornly. 

Elrond sighed, then said, “Legolas, if I sleep, I may not awaken again.”

Legolas froze. “Do you mean that you will die?” he asked.

“Perhaps not die,” Elrond said slowly, carefully, as if thinking hard, “but as good as, certainly.”

Legolas frowned. “What do you mean? Why?”

They had not spoken of what Elrond had faced—or done—the day before. Legolas thought now that perhaps that was a mistake. 

Elrond sighed again. “Legolas,” he said, “you must trust me on this. If I sleep, I may pass into a darkness as solid as death, and I may not awaken again.”

“But why?” Legolas pressed. “What happened?”

Elrond ran a hand down his face. “To know the answer to that question may put you in grave danger,” said Elrond. 

“Or perhaps it will save me,” Legolas protested. “And you. The better prepared I am for whatever we face, the more likely I will be to prevail. Am I not wrong?”

“It is banished for now,” said Elrond, “and we do not know what it is that draws them back to the realm of the living. I fear that the knowledge of its existence may in fact speed its recovery.”

“ _What's_ recovery?” Legolas asked. 

Elrond merely shook his head. “No, Legolas,” he said. “I will not tell you. Not yet, at least. Now sleep. I will awaken you when it is time to depart.”

Grudgingly, Legolas obeyed. He lay down on the hard ground and closed his eyes, head cushioned by his elbow. He did not agree with Elrond's decision, but Legolas was wise enough to know that he would not be getting any more answers from the Elf lord that night. 

Legolas dreamt a strange dream.

He stood on a bluff overlooking the forest. A cloud of butterflies rose from the trees, wings dark and iridescent against the pale blue sky, against the few wispy clouds that scudded across the ether. 

Before him, between him and the drop, stood Elrond. He blazed with white-gold light tinged with a sapphire's blue, the light shimmering and shining all around him like a halo, a veil, a shroud.

Legolas opened his mouth to call to the Elf lord—but before he could, a dark shape arose before him, swallowing trees and heavens and butterflies and clouds alike, devouring the light itself. It was formless, nebulous, a drifting morass of shadow that consumed all it touched.

It looked at Legolas over Elrond’s head, and shrieked. Then, with a piercing wail, it swept down, down, down, cascading around Elrond to reach for Legolas.

Only Elrond stretched out his arms and the light emanating from him blazed forth. Where it touched the shadow, the shadow screamed in agony and drew back. Elrond flung his head back, and from his chest there came a haunting, echoing melody—one of pain, of heartbreak, and above all, of beauty. Like arrows the notes sank into the dark being, piercing it through with melody and harmony, driving it back, back, back…

But still it came on, shrieking and wailing and screaming, stretching formless fingers toward Legolas. But still Elrond stood in its path, singing and burning bright and brighter still with that white-gold-blue light.

Legolas gasped awake. It was just before dawn, and Elrond knelt above him, the leg with the broken hip splayed out awkwardly beside him. 

“Quickly,” Elrond hissed, shaking Legolas again. “We must go.”

Legolas scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking away the last traces of Reverie. Just what had that dream meant?Was it a portend? A warning? A prophecy? A hint as to what was to come? 

Or was it nothing at all? A simple figment of Legolas’s imagination and fears?

Pushing aside his thoughts, Legolas rose and doused the fire. They mounted up and rode out, the remains of the fire still smoking gently. 

They rode hard, the howls of the wolves closing in around them. Avasath’s hooves struck water again and again, spraying it up to her belly and the Elves’ boots. Mud splattered her chest and sides, which heaved with exertion. They ran, and ran, and ran—but still the wolves’ howls drew ever closer.

_ We’re never going to outrun them, _ Legolas thought with sick realization _There’s no hope…_

“Take hope, Thranduilion,” Elrond called from in front of Legolas. His voice was strained and tight with pain, but there was a strength to it that Legolas had not looked to see. 

Turning Avasath, Elrond guided them away from the river and up the sloping bank toward the trees. Legolas frowned at that, wondering—but then he saw what Elrond had seen: a cresting ridge in the near distance, the sides hollowed out by wind and rain. It was a defensible location, and would be a far better place to stand against the wolves than simply allowing them to run Avasath down.

They reached the foot of the ridge some five minutes later. It was better even than Legolas had hoped; the base was nearly a cliff, curved into a slight bowl, before it eased out into a gentle slope fifteen feet above their heads. The trees ended in a semi-circle before the cliff, leaving a large, open area in front of it.

Legolas slid off of Avasath’s back, then helped Elrond dismount as well. Elrond turned Avasath’s head until she was facing out, away from the cliff, and looped an arm over her neck to help keep his balance. Legolas drew Hadhafang and took a step forward, calming his breath and his heart. It would do him no good to exhaust himself with anticipation of the fight to come.

The wolves arrived soon thereafter. They came in low and fast, brown shapes against the shadows beneath the trees, eyes flat and yellow. They were small and stocky, the hybrids bred by the Orcs as mounts and hunters. Broken, yellow teeth showed from behind curled lips, and their muzzles were wrinkled into snarls.

They fanned out into a line, hackles raised and low, throbbing growls echoing through the air. Tense, they waited for something—some unspoken command. Legolas shifted his grip on Hadhafang's hilt, waiting, waiting, waiting…

A clear, clarion note of song pierced the waiting silence. Legolas glanced to his left just in time to see Elrond open his mouth to sing a long, haunting strain of music. It was daring, challenging, contrary; it charged the air, electrified it, spun it into tension itself. 

Legolas turned back to the wargs and shouted, “Come on, then!” He leapt forward—and the air exploded. 

Lighting bolted from the heavens, striking one of the wargs through the back. It howled and fell, charred from the inside out, turning to ash before it struck the leaf litter. The rest of the wargs sprang forward as well, howling and raising hell, teeth clicking and jaws snapping.

Legolas met them head-on. He ran the first warg through the open mouth, embedding Hadhafang in its brain before disengaging and striking at a second warg. It fell, a cut to its heart bleeding its lifeblood out onto the soil.

Lightning struck again, lancing from the sky and charring two more wargs before it died. Legolas spun, kicking out with one foot and stabbing at a second warg in the same movement. The first warg stumbled and nearly fell, and the second one died on Hadhafang's tip. 

Three wargs were left. One of them leapt at Elrond, jaws wide and slaver flying. Avasath reared, knocking Elrond's arm away. Her hooves impacted the warg on the head, and she came down with crushing force. The warg did not move again. 

The other two charged for Legolas. He stabbed one, then went down beneath the second. It bit down at him, and Legolas lifted his already-wounded arm. It took the brunt of the blow, and Legolas cried out in pain as teeth bit deep, deep, deep into his flesh, grating against bone. He heaved, throwing the warg off of him bodily, then he rolled to his knees and stabbed down, down, down. He took the warg through the side, piercing its lungs and heart with one blow. 

Breathing heavily, Legolas staggered to his feet. Turning, he called, “Lord Elrond, we defeated them! We are free and clear. We—”

He froze. 

Elrond lay on his side, broken arm sprawled beneath his head. His eyes were closed. 

He was unconscious.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO HAS A FULLY FUNCTIONING COMPUTER AGAIN?!
> 
> I'm so, SO sorry y'all for disappearing like that. I've had only a semi-functional computer for the last month or so, and it's just been getting worse and worse as time goes on. It barely had enough processing power to allow me to access Google docs and Spotify (meaning I have been writing - in what little free time I have; I work 40 hours a week, go to school, and this last week also had/have to clean my entire house because a friend is coming in for Easter). and AO3 were just Too Much for both my computer's poor heart and mine...
> 
> I promise not to disappear like that again though, now that I have a reliable computer once more. (If you're curious, her name is Rose and she's a silver HP. She's gorgeous.) Thank you all for bearing with me through this, and I hope I didn't lose too many people in this little hiatus...
> 
> Most importantly though, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 15

_ The seventeenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

Legolas dropped to his knees by Elrond's side, Hadhafang lying forgotten by his foot. 

“Elrond,” Legolas called. “Elrond! Lord Elrond!”

Elrond did not reply. 

“Oh, Eru,” Legolas prayed, “let him awaken.”

He gripped Elrond's shoulder and shook him once, twice, three times. He did not move, did not awaken, did not so much as twitch. 

“Valar,” Legolas begged, “please, help him… I can't do this alone.”

~*x*~

Elrond stood in a sea of swirling grey mist. It was cold against his skin, against his face, against his breath, and it clung to his hair and to his clothes in beads of pearly silver. He stood on barren earth cracked from drought, and above him stretched a slate grey sky. 

“Ah, Star-child.” The voice was hissing and smooth, insidious, black in tongue and tone. “You have come again to my domain.”

“Show yourself,” Elrond demanded, straightening as best he could with a broken hip. 

The voice laughed. The sound was slick and barbed, and dug at Elrond's ears and made him want to cringe. He did not. Instead he stood tall, hands at his sides, chin held high and eyes flashing. 

“I command you to show yourself,” he said again. 

A blurred shape began to take form before him. It was dark, and indistinct at the edges, as if water had trickled among paint and made it run. Flaming eyes glared out from what could only be the thing's face, hot and bright and red. They were slit vertically, like a cat's—like a dragon's. 

“Now, Star-child,” the dark being said, “we see each other face to face. Are you content?”

“I will be content only with your destruction,” Elrond retorted coldly. 

The being laughed again. “No man may kill me,” it said, proudly and just as cold as Elrond. In its tone was hate. “But _I_ can kill _you_.”

A line of burning, blinding pain erupted in Elrond's side. He screamed, the hand of his unbroken arm going to the wound, and he fell to his knees. It was cold, cold, cold against his touch. Ice formed along its edge, sank deep into his flesh, bit into his blood. It crept onto his fingers where they touched the wound, and he jerked away. 

The being laughed a third time. “You will be mine, Star-child,” it whispered, and stepped forward to touch Elrond on the head.

Elrond leapt up and stumbled back on unsteady feet, just narrowly avoiding the being's touch. The being hissed and lunged forward, formless fingers splayed. The being gestured to Elrond—behind Elrond—and Elrond felt air buffet him, dragging at his clothes and hair. 

Something hard slammed into Elrond's back, halting his stumbling flight. He chanced a glance backwards, and saw what had not been there before: cracked and pitted stone. It rose, high and higher above his head, stretching nigh unto the heavens. 

The being crowed in triumph. “You are mine, Star-child,” it gloried, and reached for him.

Elrond lifted a hand as well—and his palm met cold, slick blackness. 

On his forefinger, a star blazed. 

The being cried out, staggering back. For a second its form wavered, blurring in and out of sight. Then it strengthened once more, forming firm and solid. 

“What was that?” it hissed, full of anger and hatred. “I felt it before, on the bank of the river… Even _you_ , Star-child, do not have power like that.”

Elrond laughed, and in the laughter was something that sounded like hatred of his own. 

“I am more than you know or understand, Defiler,” he said. “You will never have me.”

The being canted its nebulous head to one side, considering. “Not yet,” it said at last. “But even you cannot deny the wound in your side. I will have you, Star-child. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But I will have you, eventually. And then you, and that star on your finger, will be mine.”

“That day is long in coming,” said Elrond. “And I will do all in my power to halt its arrival.”

“We shall see,” said the being. “We shall see…”

And Elrond awoke.

~*x*~

Pain welcomed Elrond back to the realm of the conscious. Pain and cold.

He groaned, and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Legolas's chin; he lay propped up in the young prince's arms, his head cushioned against Legolas's chest, Legolas's arms wrapped around his stomach to hold him close. There were drops of wet on Elrond's tunic—tears.

“Peace, young Greenleaf,” said Elrond. His voice was hoarse and scratched. “I am conscious.”

Legolas gave a cry, and looked down in shock. His entire face lit up when he saw Elrond's eyes, a smile of relief and joy breaking across his lips. 

“Oh, thank Eru,” he said gladly. “Thank the Valar. But what happened? I thought…”

“As did I,” said Elrond. “It would seem I am stronger than I gave myself credit for—or the darkness that seeks to subdue me is weaker.”

Legolas frowned. “What darkness is that?” he asked. 

Elrond did not answer. Instead he dragged himself into a seated position, gritting his teeth against the agony spearing through his hip and into his leg, against the coldness eating at his bones. “Come,” was all he said. “The wargs’ Orc handlers will likely not be far behind. We should leave now, before they draw near.”

Legolas nodded, allowing the matter of the identity of Elrond's attacker to drop. He stood, then leaned down to grip Elrond's wrist, drawing him upright and to his feet. Elrond hopped awkwardly, keeping his weight off of his injured left leg, then allowed Legolas to guide him to where Avasath waited patiently nearby. She had been watching him with concern, and as he drew near she stretched out her head to him, whickering softly.

“I am well,” Elrond said, reaching out his unbroken hand to stroke her nose when he drew abreast of her. “I am well,” he murmured again, and pressed his lips against the skin of her neck to whisper a third time, “I am well.” She rested her chin on his shoulder, and for a long moment they simply stood there, together, basking in the warmth and stolidity of the other's presence. 

Then Elrond straightened and looked at Legolas. “Thank you,” he said simply. Legolas smiled, knowing—or at least guessing at—what he meant, and nodded. 

Legolas helped Elrond mount, then asked, “Can you stay ahorse at a walk?”

“I can try,” said Elrond, wrapping his hands in Avasath's mane. 

“If not, I can mount up behind you,” said Legolas, “but I thought it would be kind to give Avasath a break.”

Elrond nodded. “That is thoughtful of you,” he said, and Legolas smiled again.

“I do try,” he said.

Legolas started forward, Avasath's reins wrapped around his left hand. She followed obediently at a slow walk, moving carefully so as not to jostle or disturb Elrond perched atop her back. Elrond gritted his teeth, but made no complaint, even as his breath was stolen by pain. This was far better than the canter—now, at least, he was able to stay upright and on Avasath's back without needing Legolas to hold him there. 

They walked in silence for a few moments, content to simply reside in their own thoughts. Then, however, Legolas said, “When will you tell me what the darkness you speak of is?”

“Not now,” said Elrond firmly. 

“But—”

“No, Legolas.”

Legolas subsided. Then, abruptly, he said, “Tell me about the last time you fought? I have heard stories of your prowess in battle from some of the older warriors in my father's army, but I would like to hear a tale from your own lips.”

Elrond smiled grimly, and without mirth. “While I occasionally will spar in the practice courts, I have not properly fought since the War of the Last Alliance. And those days were dark and full of blood and sorrow and despair—not good topics for tales.”

“Then tell me another story,” Legolas pleaded. “One perhaps that is not so dark.”

Elrond sighed. “All battle is dark,” he told Legolas. “You are young and still full of the vigor to prove yourself, but you too will come to learn that there is no joy in fighting, no glory in killing.”

Legolas frowned, looking over his shoulder at Elrond. “But we only slay Orcs and wolves, not Men or Dwarves or other Elves. And do not Orcs deserve death?”

“They are living creatures,” Elrond admonished, “just as you and I are living and loving creatures. Does anything with the life that Eru gave it deserve death?”

“But the Orcs were not created by Eru,” protested Legolas. “They were created by Morgoth, by torturing and twisting Elves into mockeries of Eru's children.”

“Does that not mean they deserve even more care from us?” Elrond asked. “If they were forced into the perversions that they are, do they not deserve our pity and compassion, rather than our hatred and swords?”

“But they are evil,” Legolas said. “They enjoy causing pain and bringing death, to their own kind if there is no one else available to them to torment or murder. Is that not the definition of evil?”

“Perhaps,” said Elrond. “But can anything truly be evil if it has know and been raised to nothing else?”

“They serve Sauron though, and Morgoth before him.”

“Again, they had no choice. They were subjugated to Sauron's and Morgoth's will. And yet, even so, some of them fought against their former masters. There were Orcs in our ranks in the War of the Last Alliance, and there were Orcs who fought with us in the War of Wrath as well.”

Legolas frowned. “Those Orcs may not deserve death then,” he decided. “But what of those who torment your friends and loved ones? Is there no glory in finding vengeance for those you care for?”

“Vengeance is a dangerous thing,” said Elrond. “It is quick to devour even the most righteous of hearts and reasons. I am not saying there is no place for vengeance,” Elrond said quickly, when Legolas opened his mouth to argue, “only that it is a dangerous tool to use and emotion to harbor. It destroys the one who bears it as readily as those who it is leveled against.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this,” Legolas pointed out.

“I have felt my fair share of vengeance,” said Elrond. “It never ended well for me.”

Legolas frowned. “Who have you sought vengeance against?”

Elrond was silent for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “Maedhros, for one.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows. “But I thought he was your foster father.”

“He was,” said Elrond. “And I loved him. But I hated him too.”

Legolas seemed to have no answer to that.

“How can you love someone and hate them at the same time?” Legolas asked after a long time’s silence.

“Much more easily than you might think,” said Elrond, and then deftly changed the subject.

They stopped as night began to fall across the forest. Taking shelter in the lee of a tree, they lit a fire and settled down for the evening, Avasath contentedly cropping grass close by.

“At least she can eat,” said Legolas, with only a tinge of bitterness. “If only I had a bow,” he added, lamenting, “I could fill our bellies with game.”

Elrond smiled. “‘Tis all right, penneth. I, for one, doubt that I could eat anything at the moment—though I cannot speak for you.”

“I could eat a whole deer,” Legolas groused, “I’m that faint with hunger.”

Elrond hummed with sympathy, then picked up and tossed a pebble to Legolas. “This works better if you are faint from thirst,” he said, “but suck on that. It should help.”

Legolas eyed the pebble warily, but put it in his mouth after a glance at Elrond, who nodded encouragingly. “You aren’t going to laugh at me, are you?” Legolas asked, still uncertain, even as he began to suck.

Elrond chuckled. “My days of playing such pranks are long since past,” he told the younger Elf. “I am now a stately member of the Wise, far beyond such antics.”

Legolas snorted. “Somehow,” he said drolly, “you saying that makes me believe quite the opposite.”

Elrond laughed, then grimaced, his unhurt hand going to his side. The long cut there burned with cold, and sang with pain at his every move, his every breath. The pain was so constant he could nearly ignore it, could nearly forget it existed—until he did something like laugh, or twist in an unnatural way, reminding him sharply of his wounds.

“I should set that bone,” Legolas said abruptly, nodding to Elrond’s broken left arm.

“Do you know how to set a broken bone...?” Elrond asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” said Legolas defensively. “Well, in a way. I have been taught how to do so, though I have never done it myself. It really should be done, though,” Legolas went on. “We do not want your bone beginning to set and heal crooked that way.”

Elrond sighed, but nodded. “I will walk you through it,” he said, and extended the arm.

Legolas collected three nearly-straight sticks from the ground around their campsite, then settled himself by Elrond’s side. He took the proffered arm and hand, feeling along the break with long fingers to sense out where the bone had shifted, and in what way. Once he was satisfied, he gripped Elrond’s arm above and below the break, following Elrond’s direction, and pulled.

Elrond yelled.

The bone grated and shifted—then popped. For a second, Elrond thought he lost consciousness—everything went blank and white, the world fading around him to emptiness. Then everything slid back into focus, and all was set to rights. His arm throbbed and ached, sharp and severe, but when he looked down, he could see that the bone was once more where it was meant to be.

Legolas quickly took the three sticks and lashed them to Elrond’s arm with strips of cloth torn from the hem of his tunic. Elrond flexed his hand, biting back a gasp of pain as he did so—but he was satisfied with a job well done.

“My thanks, Legolas,” he said, and reached out with his good hand to grip Legolas’s shoulder. 

“I am only sorry I did not think to do this sooner,” Legolas said, blushing faintly.

“There were more pressing matters to attend to,” Elrond pointed out.

“I still could have done this last night,” said Legolas.

Elrond shook his head. “What is done is done,” he said. “Now sleep. I will keep watch.”

Legolas spat out the pebble and lay down. After a few minutes his eyes glazed over in Reverie, leaving Elrond alone with the silence of the falling night and his thoughts.

Elrond sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree sheltering them. It began to rain, gently at first then with increasing strength, causing their fire to hiss and spit. Elrond thought of the last time he had been in this much pain—which led to dark thoughts of dark days.

_ No _ … he told himself, shoving the memories of Gil-Galad, of war, of Sauron away. _Now is not the time to dwell on such things. Now is the time to focus on brightness and joy and light._

He conjured to mind the image of his wife’s face, smiling and bright, wreathed in silver and haloed with gold. He thought of his sons laughing and joking with Glorfindel, and of his daughter sitting in the window seat in his office, embroidering while he worked. He thought of the gardens in Rivendell, and of the Last Homely House filled with song. He thought of Erestor, and of Lindir, and of the Captains of Imladris, Maelrodh and Aravadhor and Galchyl.

He thought of home, and of the love in his life, and the joy.

A darkness he had not even realized was hanging onto him loosened—though it did not release him completely. Instead it lurked, creeping close about his feet, twining around his ankles, resting lightly on his shoulders and edging around his thoughts.

_ You will not...win, _ he told it sternly. _I am stronger than you._

_ “Perhaps,” _ the insidious voice whispered. _“Perhaps…”_

Elrond closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in, and out, and in again, letting the night sounds of the forest fill him. Then he opened his eyes again, and focused on the fire burning before him. 

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry for disappearing like I did. In fact...you know what? I want to make it up to you all. SO. I'll go ahead and post another chapter right now as an apology, and we'll go from there. (Like my stream of conscious? I hope so, because I'm keeping it in here...) Give me like two seconds...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: chapter #2 for the day. Enjoy!

Chapter 16

_The eighteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age._

Legolas dreamt a stranger dream.

He walked along a running river, the waves white-capped and crackling with ice. The trees hugged the bank, their boughs dripping with icicles and whispering with freezing rain, bark slick and black. The mud was frozen beneath his feet, hard and snapping with each step.

A breeze whispered through the leaves, rattling the ice-coated foliage. On it hummed a near-silent, near-black voice. _Mine_ , it whispered. _Star-child...is...mine, mine…_

_MINE._

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw something floating slowly down the river. The figure was tall and dark and familiar—and with a jolt of shock and a thrill of horror, Legolas knew exactly who it was he saw.

“Lord Elrond!” he exclaimed, turning and lunging into the river. He struck out, ignoring the bite of the cold and the sting of the water, cleaving his way through the waves to reach the Elf lord sweeping along with the current.

It was a battle—against the current, against the cold, against himself, against the voice on the breeze shrieking in his mind and in his ears. _MINE!_ it wailed, tugging at his clothes and hair, grappling at his shoulders and back and head. _Mine, mine, MINE!_

His numbed fingers closed on cloth, and the next instant Legolas was dragging him back, back, back toward the shore. He reached it an agonizing moment later, shivering and with teeth chattering with cold and shock.

“Lord Elrond,” Legolas said through his chattering teeth, kneeling by the prone figure and touching his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. There was no pulse beneath his chin, and his skin was frigid and covered with ice. His lips were blue, his eyes closed, his lashes frosted over. “Lord Elrond!”

 _MINE!_ the voice shrieked, wrapping around Elrond and dragging him back, back, back toward the river.

Legolas stood. “No,” he said, as stoutly and firmly as he could muster from between his shakes. “No, he is _not_ yours.”

A dark figure reared up from the center of the freezing river, black and nebulous and ominous. _“MINE!”_ it screamed—and Legolas awoke.

Elrond sat across the fire from Legolas, his back against the tree they had taken shelter beneath, his eyes open and staring out into the darkness creeping in around them. He blinked when he saw Legolas sit up, and half a smile crept up the corners of his lips.

“Did you not sleep well, young Legolas?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head, but did not elaborate. Instead he settled down before the fire, crossing his legs and clasping his hands in his lap, staring into the dancing flames. His arm ached where the warg had bit him, but the bleeding had ceased and the gouges had yet to grow infected, which Legolas considered a victory.

After a moment, Legolas said abruptly, “Are you dying, Lord Elrond?”

“I thought I asked you to call me Elrond,” Elrond said.

“That was not my question,” said Legolas. “Please, do not try to avoid it.”

Elrond sighed. “Yes, Legolas,” he said heavily. “I am dying.” He hesitated, then sighed again. “It is time you knew the truth—or, at least...part of the truth.”

Legolas leaned forward, listening intently.

“I faced a great evil in your forest, while trying to give you time to escape,” Elrond said. “A great evil of old, that we had thought defeated. I was wounded—a poisoned wound that will kill me, slowly but certainly, if I do not find a way to heal myself.”

“And will that be possible?” Legolas asked.

“I do not know,” Elrond replied grimly. “I have healed wounds the likes of which I received before—but not since the War of the Last Alliance, and in every instance before the wounded has been forced to leave these shores, or has died a premature death.”

Legolas cursed quietly. “And will you be forced to leave these shores?” he asked.

“Legolas, I do not even know if I will survive the week,” Elrond said.

Legolas felt as if he had been kicked in the gut by a horse. “But you cannot die,” Legolas protested. “You...you’re Lord Elrond. You…”

“Anyone...can die, Legolas,” said Elrond calmly—too calmly, it seemed to Legolas. He was speaking of his own mortality as if it as nothing but a passing fancy, as if it was no more important than a book he had been reading before bed. “It is only a matter of time before we reach Aman, either by Mandos’s Halls or by a ship.”

“But you have yet so much to do,” Legolas said hotly. “You are one of the Wise! You are one of the Elven lords of Middle-earth! You are one of the eldest Elves still remaining here. You _cannot die._ Not now. Not yet.”

“Your protestations do not change the fact that I am...dying,” Elrond said, still infuriatingly calm.

“What can we do to stop it?” Legolas asked. “Or slow it?”

“Reach your father’s halls,” Elrond replied. “Even then, however, there may be no one of sufficient skill to aid me in healing the wound.”

“We have skilled healers,” Legolas said, trying not to sound affronted.

“I know that you do,” Elrond said. “But...there are only a few on this side of the Sundering Sea who can combat a Morgul wound.”

Legolas gasped. He had, of course, heard of Morgul wounds—wounds dealt by Morgul blades, often wielded by Sauron’s chief servants. There were only a few who could enchant such weapons: Sauron himself, the Witch-king of Angmar, and perhaps one or two others of the Nazgûl who had the gift of witchcraft. Only a little was known, even to the Elves, of how the Morgul blades were formed, fashioned, and enchanted—though what they did know was disturbing, and spoke only of black magic.

Just who was it that Elrond had fought? Was it one of Sauron’s chief servants? Or was it simply an evil being who had found one of the blades of old that had not been destroyed at the end of the last War?

“The cut in your side,” Legolas guessed, the pieces of the puzzle sliding together. “That is the Morgul wound, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Elrond replied.

Legolas lapsed into silence. Then, he asked, “What will this look like? How will death claim you?”

“It will become increasingly difficult for me to remain conscious,” Elrond said. “And once I do fall unconscious, I will begin to Fade, becoming more and more wraith-like with each passing day, until I am nothing more than a houseless spirit bound to the Morgul maker’s will.”

“And who is that?” Legolas asked.

Elrond merely shook his head. “We have no way of knowing who formed this Morgul blade.” There was something in his eyes, however, that told Legolas he had an idea, if not a certainty.

“So how do we combat this?” Legolas asked.

“I stay awake.”

“For as long as you can,” Legolas finished, and Elrond nodded. “Very well. Well, I hope you will allow me to aid you in staying awake.”

Elrond smiled. “I will,” he said—though again, there was something strange in his eyes that told Legolas the Elf lord was not telling the entire truth. “Now go back to sleep,” Elrond bade Legolas. “There is nothing else you can do for me tonight. I will wake you at dawn.”

Grudgingly, Legolas laid back down, cushioning his head with his arm. He did not slide into Reverie right away, however. Instead he thought, long and hard, about the predicament he and Elrond faced. At last, however, he slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? Let me know!


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

_ The nineteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age. _

The next morning dawned just as grim and grey as the last. Elrond shook Legolas awake, looking exhausted and drained and grey-faced. Legolas rose, doused the fire, then helped Elrond to mount Avasath. They set out in the pre-dawn chill, Avasath walking slowly and carefully, Legolas at her head.

They traveled in silence for the first hour, both lost to their own thoughts. Twice Legolas turned to look at Elrond, only to find his gaze very far away and his mouth firmed into a thin line. Not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, Legolas left him to his thinking, and went back to his own dark musings on the nature of mortality among Elves, and the dire danger of Morgul blades.

At last, however, Elrond spoke. “I am sorry, Legolas.”

“For what?” Legolas asked, turning once more to look at Elrond, who was swaying slightly on Avasath’s back.

“For…” He trailed off, blinked, then said again, “For burdening you. I should not have told you what I did last night.”

Legolas shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said firmly, “I am glad that you told me what you did. I need to know what is happening to you, the better to aid and support you.”

“You cannot help me,” Elrond said softly.

Frowning, Legolas said, “What do you mean? Of course I can. I can…” 

What _could_ he do? He could talk to Elrond to keep him awake, and perhaps splash him with the occasional water. But what else could he do to aid the Elf lord in staying conscious? Shout at him? Slap him? Startle him? None of those things seemed particularly respectful, and though he was more comfortable now with the Elf lord than he had ever been before, Legolas still wanted to respect Elrond.

“I…” Elrond once more trailed off, this time with a shake of his head. “Never mind,” he said, and lapsed back into silence.

After another hour of travel, Legolas asked, “How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I am fine,” Elrond snapped, startling Legolas. He slumped then, shaking his head, and said, “I am...sorry, Legolas. I make a poor...patient. It has been noted…many times. It simply…” Yet again he trailed off, and this time seemed to lose his train of thought. He frowned, shook his head, then said again, “I am sorry, Legolas.”

“Is there anything else we can do to slow the Morgul wound’s influence?”

“I...have been,” said Elrond. “While you have...been in Reverie, I have been...singing, and...fighting.”

His pauses between words were growing much more pronounced. What Legolas had first thought were simply pauses for thought, or slight hesitations between words, were morphing into stops and halts. The way he would trail off was also beginning to grow worrisome—Legolas had never known Elrond of Rivendell to lose his train of thought, and yet he had done so at least once now, probably twice.

“Forgive me, Legolas?” Elrond sounded sad and small, somehow—desperate, almost.

“Of course,” Legolas said quickly. “I make a poor patient myself. The healers in my father’s halls can attest to that.”

“When...have you been injured?” Elrond asked.

Legolas grinned, though there was little mirth to the gesture. “I have had a few unfortunate encounters with Orcs,” Legolas said. “More and more have been creeping into and trying to make homes in Eryn Galen, and none of them have been happy to be told they cannot stay.”

“I...am...sure…”

“More than that, I have, unfortunately, had a few training accidents. I broke my arm and my head falling from a tree a few centuries ago, and a new archer I was instructing once shot me through the chest.”

Elrond winced in sympathy. “That sounds...painful.”

Legolas laughed. “It was. Has anything similar happened to you?”

Elrond nodded, then looked thoughtful—no, confused. “I cannot seem to...recall...any details, though…”

“That is all right,” said Legolas quickly.

They lapsed into silence once more, tense and strained. Elrond’s breathing was harsh against the silence in the forest and the thump of Avasath’s hooves on the leaf litter and loam, and every so often it would pause. Legolas would look back with concern when that would happen—but every time, after a few seconds, Elrond would begin to breathe again, as if nothing had interrupted him. 

Around noon they took a rest, allowing Avasath to crop grass while they settled down onto the ground and leaned back against trees. Legolas watched Elrond fight to stay conscious, and considered what he could do to aid him—without Elrond knowing what he was doing.

“Will you do something for me?” Legolas asked.

Elrond frowned. “What?” he asked.

“Tell me something about yourself that is not in any of the history books?”

If only he could keep him talking, then perhaps—just perhaps—he could keep him conscious and aware.

Elrond was silent for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “I was there when...when Elros...died. He summoned...me...and I went. He sent...his...children out...and so it was...just me...when he...passed.” It seemed to be growing more and more difficult for Elrond to speak. Even so, he went on. “With the shattering...of our twin...bond, I...I went a little…” He frowned, struggling. “I went a little…” He swallowed. “A little...crazy. I…” He shuddered, and fell silent. Then he frowned, seeing Legolas looking at him, and said, “What...is it...Legolas?”

“You were telling me of your twin bond breaking,” Legolas said. “When Elros died.”

“I...was?”

“Yes. You said you went a little crazy.”

“I...did.” He nodded. “I did. I went...mad with...grief, and with...the pain...of our...bond...breaking. It was like a…a jagged hole...the edges...tattered and...and frayed, in...in my soul. Still is. It still...hurts.” Abruptly, he began to weep.

Not knowing what else to do, and unable to simply watch as the renowned Elf lord wept alone, Legolas shifted so that he was seated beside Elrond. Then, gathering him close, Legolas guided Elrond’s head to his shoulder, and he held him as his body shook from the force of his sobs.

Very suddenly, Elrond fell still. Fear spiking through him, Legolas sat up and pulled away, hands going to Elrond’s shoulders. “Elrond?” he called. “Lord Elrond!” He shook the Elf lord, and Elrond shuddered—then blinked. 

“I...am here…” he panted. “I am...awake…”

Relief washed through Legolas. “I thought, for a second, that—”

“I...did,” said Elrond. “But just...for a second.”

He shuddered again, and his eyes went very distant, as if he was seeing something else besides Legolas and the forest around them—something dark and disturbing. He blinked, and came back to himself. “We should...move on.”

Legolas nodded and rose, helping Elrond to his feet as well.

They talked throughout the afternoon. Elrond’s pauses grew greater and more pronounced, until he was halting after every word. Every so often he would trail off, losing track of his thoughts and his words, and Legolas would have to remind him of what he was saying. Still, though, he fought on—fought with every breath he took, with every shudder of his weakening body, with every second of painful wakefulness.

Legolas found his respect for the Elf lord rising—if that was even possible. Where before he had been in awe of the great Half Elf for his renown and his Wisdom, for the old stories others told of him, he now found himself in awe of the Peredhel for the strength of his mind and of his body, his resilience, and his courage in the face of overwhelming darkness. Legolas was certain that, if their places had been reversed, he would have long ago given in.

Twice more Elrond went abruptly silent, his entire body slackening and falling still. It would last no more than a few heartbeats, and every time he awoke—though every time he was more distant than before, and it took a longer and longer moment for him to come back to himself, his eyes clearing and the darkness fading away from his face. Each time, Legolas asked what it was Elrond had seen—and each time, Elrond did not answer.

“Nothing,” he said the second time. “Nothing...at...all.”

Legolas knew that was a lie, but he did not press him. Instead, Legolas merely gripped the hand of his unbroken arm and said, “I am with you, my lord. Until the end.”

They halted as night began to fall, Legolas building a fire and making Elrond as comfortable as he could. Then they settled in to spend the long night together, Legolas swearing—to himself as well as to Elrond—that he would not sleep. Not so long as Elrond was fighting the darkness.

Halfway through the night, Elrond began speaking in gibberish. His words were still Sindarin, but they were disjointed and made no sense in the context of one another. He spoke at length of Sauron, of Angband, of the Witch-king, of Ancalagon.

“A ship!” he cried, and then, softer, “Ada...Ada...Ada…”

All throughout, his pauses grew longer, his halts more pronounced, his trailing offs more common. It tugged at Legolas’s heart to watch. It physically pained him to see Elrond, renowned Elf lord and warrior, healer, scion of every noble Eldar and Edain house, come to such painful ruin.

“What can I do to help you?” Legolas asked, begged, pleaded, once, twice, three times, until he knelt before Elrond, raving in increasingly fragmented phrases and words. “Please, my lord,” Legolas said, once, twice, three times, “just tell me what to do.”

Elrond did not answer. Instead, he began to speak in a tongue Legolas did not know—first a tongue that was fluid and ancient, great and powerful and full of mighty words and deeds; second a tongue that was very similar to his own, but with strange inflections and accents and sounds that Legolas did not know; third a tongue of Man that Legolas had heard spoken twice during his tutelage; lastly, as Elrond fell farther and farther into darkness, his words and ravings growing stranger and more distinct, a tongue of such great despair and pain and harrowing that Legolas thought it could only be Black Speech. He flinched at the sound of it, longing to cover his ears with his hands, longing to cover Lord Elrond’s mouth and silence the sound of it. Behind him, Avasath ceased her cropping of the grass and flung up her head, nostrils flared, ears pricked, mouth opened slightly as if she was panting.

Then Lord Elrond fell silent. Though his eyes were open, they were unseeing, and he did not move, even when Legolas shook him.

“Elrond?” he called, cried, begged. “Lord Elrond, please. _Please._ ”

He did not move again until sunrise.

At the first touch of grey dawn, however, Elrond blinked, and drew in a long, shuddering breath. Legolas, who had been dozing by the fire, started upright, then hurriedly knelt by Elrond’s side, one hand going to his shoulder.

“Lord Elrond?” he asked, hesitantly, nearly afraid. “Lord Elrond, are you there?”

Elrond fumbled for something on his right hand. Legolas frowned, looking down at the movement—and there, unexpectedly, where there had been nothing before, Legolas saw a golden ring set with a sapphire.

“Here,” Elrond gasped, and he shoved the ring into Legolas’s hands. His words were strangely forceful and, for the first time in more than a day, steady and strong. “Keep it—keep it secret, keep it safe. Do not put it on. Tell no one of it, save for Glorfindel or Lady Galadriel or Mithrandir. The secret of this ring is worth more than your life—or mine. Do you understand?”

“What is it?” Legolas asked.

“ _Do you understand_?” Elrond asked, words cutting and sharp.

“I understand,” said Legolas, stuffing the ring into a pocket, shocked and startled and, more than anything, confused. Just what was it that Elrond was giving him? What was so important that he could only tell Glorfindel, Lady Galadriel, or Mithrandir about it? What was so special that his life was worth this secret?

“Good,” said Elrond, and he sank back. “Good…”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Good…” he said one last time—and with that, Legolas watched as consciousness fled from mind and body, leaving him still and silent and cold, cold, cold.

“No!” Legolas cried, reaching out to shake Elrond. “No, please. _Please._ I cannot do this alone,” he said, echoing what he had said days before. “Please, Eru. Please, Valar. Do not let this be the end…”

But Elrond did not move. He remained unconscious, even as the sun rose and the grey dawn gave way to grim daylight. 

**Author's Note:**

> So what did you think? Uptight and pretentious? Bad? Maybe kind of decent? Let me know!


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